LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 

V 


Presented  To  The 

UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 

from  the 

Estate  of 
Gerald  C.  Thomas 


RECOLLECTIONS 
OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 


RECOLLECTIONS 
OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

PRESS,  BAR  AND  PARLIAMENT 


BY 

M.   M'D.   BODKIN,   K.C. 


WITH    25    ILLUSTRATIONS,    INCLUDING    A    PORTRAIT 
OF    THE    AUTHOR    IN    PHOTOGRAVURE 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


CONTENTS 

PF'  PAGE 

I.    OLD  TIMES  IN  THE  WEST  OF  IRELAND  .        .        .  i 

II.    EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS 13 

III.  THE  REPORTERS'  ROOM 26 

IV.  WORK  AND  PLAY       .       .       .       .        .       .       -35 

V.    LONGBOW  AND  BULL 45 

VI.    DICK  ADAMS 51 

VII.    FATHER  JAMES  HEALY 62 

VIII.    FATHER  TOM  BURKE        ....       v.       .  71 

IX.    CALLED  TO  THE  BAR 83 

X.    ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS        ....  94 

XI.    BAR  AND  BENCH 108 

XII.    LAW  AND  LEVITY 122 

XIII.  LAUGHTER  IN  COURT 131 

XIV.  PRACTICE  AT  THE  BAR 140 

XV.   A  NEW  DEPARTURE 147 

XVI.    THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION 152 

XVII.   THE  PARNELL  SPLIT 168 

XVIII.    PARLIAMENT 179 

XIX.    EXPERIENCES  OF  AN  IRISH  M.P 189 

XX.    HUMOURS  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS         .       .  198 

XXI.   THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 208 

XXII.    THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  HOUSE         ....  216 

XXIII.  FRONT  BENCHERS 224 

XXIV.  PORTRAITS  FROM  MEMORY       .       .       .               .  233 
XXV.    THE  EDITORIAL  "WE"  24? 


vi       RECOLLECTIONS    OF    AN    IRISH   JUDGE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI.    Two  MEN  WORTH  KNOWING 252 

XXVII.     DUNLOP  OF  THE   PNEUMATIC  TYRE             .           .           .  258 

XXVIII.   JUSTIN  MCCARTHY    . 268 

XXIX.    RANDOM  REVIEWS      .       .       .       .       .  '     .       .  276 

XXX.    BOHEMIA 281 

XXXI.    HAMLETS  I  HAVE  MET 286 

XXXII.    MORE  ABOUT  ACTORS        .       .       .     ".       .       .291 

XXXIII.  STILL  ON  THE  STAGE        .       .       .       .       .  "    .  300 

XXXIV.  ROME  AND  AMERICA 309 

XXXV.   THE  WORLD'S  PRESS  PARLIAMENT  .       ...  317 

XXXVI.    RIVAL  ATTRACTIONS  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  323 

XXXVII.   A  DELIGHTFUL  VISIT        ."......  331 

XXXVIII.    ROOSEVELT  AT  HOME        .       .       ..       .       .'      .  336 

XXXIX.   APPOINTED  A  JUDGE  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  342 

XL.    ON  THE  BENCH »       .       .  351 

INDEX  .       .       .       .       .       ,       .       .  ...  >      .361 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

M.    M'D.    BODKIN,   K.C.  .  .  .  .         Photogravure  Frontispiece 

THOMAS  BODKIN,  F.R. C.S.I.        ^ 4 

"  The  Poor  Man's  Doctor." 

"Bio  JOE  MCDONNELL"       .    * 8 

Of  Doo  Castle,  one  time  M.P.  for  Mayo. 

THE  REV.  WILLIAM  DELANY,  S.J.,  EX-PROVINCIAL    ....  20 

REV.  FATHER  JAMES  HEALY 62 

Parish  priest  of  Little  Bray. 

REV.  FATHER  TOM  BURKE,  O.P 70 

FRANK  MCDONOUGH,  Q.C 90 

THE  PARNELL  TRIAL,  DUBLIN 94 

SERGEANT  ARMSTRONG 100 

"  The  Big  Sergeant." 

BARON  DOWSE 116 

LORD  MORRIS 122 

One  time  Chief  Justice  of  Common  Pleas,  Ireland. 

MR.  JUSTICE  JAMES  MURPHY         .        . 126 

THE  LATE  COUNTY  COURT  JUDGE  WEBB 134 

SIR  EDWARD  SULLIVAN 138 

Late  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland. 

A  NEW  METHOD  OF  GOVERNMENT 148 

OUR  PRIVATE  SECRETARY 150 

AT  IT  AGAIN          .        .        .        .  ^ 162 

MINISTER  AND  MIDWIFE .  164 

CHARLES  STEWART  PARNELL 168 


viii    RECOLLECTIONS    OF    AN    IRISH   JUDGE 

FACING  PAGE 

THE  RT.  HON.  W.  E.  GLADSTONE 190 

MICHAEL  DAVITT 238 

JUSTIN  MCCARTHY 268 

LORD  O'BRIEN  OF  KILFENORA 342 

Lately  retired  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland. 

COURT  HOUSE,  ENNIS,  Co.  CLARE 352 

THE  QUILTY  HEROES 356 


-RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
;;i'i  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

CHAPTER    I 
OLD  TIMES  IN  THE  WEST  OF  IRELAND 

An  apology — The  origin  of  the  Twelve  Tribes — "  The  poor  man's  doctor  " 
— Sir  Dominick  Corrigan — Convivial  Connaught — The  padded  table — 
Tom  Bodkin  of  Kilclooney — Hunting  the  wren — "  Big  Joe  McDonnell  " 
of  Doo  Castle — "  Ready  money  for  the  lemons  " — A  twenty-one 
tumblers  man — "  Sabbatarians  " — A  fox  hunt  by  moonlight — The 
culprit  on  the  bench. 

I  WANT  to  begin  with  an  explanation  and  an  apology 
instead  of  a  preface,  and  though  I  now  put  the  few 
words  I  have  to  say  on  that  head  at  the  beginning  of  the 
first  chapter  where  they  have  the  best  chance  of  being 
read,  I  wrote  them  when  the  book  was  finished  that  they 
might  indicate  not  merely  what  I  meant  to  do,  but  as 
far  as  I  could  judge  what  I  had  done. 

This  book  must  not  be  taken  as  anything  in  the  nature 
of  an  autobiography;  it  has  no  such  presumptuous  pre- 
tension. Its  purpose  is  only  to  describe  the  interesting 
men  whom  I  have  met,  events  I  have  witnessed,  and 
stories  I  have  heard  during  a  long  and  varied  career  at  the 
Press,  Bar  and  Parliament. 

Like  the  fly  on  the  wheel,  if  I  did  not  help  much  in  the 
revolution,  I  had  a  chance  of  seeing  how  it  went  round. 
I  have  been  mixed  up  in  many  exciting  events,  I  have 
met  many  remarkable  men.  Gladstone  and  other  leaders 
of  the  Liberal  parties  were  familiar  to  me  during  my  time 
in  Parliament. 


With  Parnell  I  had  at  least  one  very  remarkable  inter- 
view. Justin  McCarthy,  William  O'Brien,  John  Dillon, 
T.  P.  O'Connor  and  other  Irish  leaders  I  can  count  as 
personal  friends.  I  had  an  interview  with  Leo  XIII  at 
the  Vatican,  and  with  Roosevelt  at  the  White  House.  I 
think  I  may  fairly  claim  a  unique  experience  of  the 
Stage.  All  the  great  actors  of  the  present  generation  I 
have  seen  on  the  boards  and  gossiped  with  behind  the 
scenes.  Of  the  Irish  Judges  and  leaders  of  the  Irish  Bar 
I  have  many  stories  to  tell  from  hearsay  or  from  personal 
knowledge.  Some  slight  description  of  the  manner  of  life 
on  the  Irish  Press  and  at  the  Irish  Bar  may  not  be  wholly 
without  interest,  and  possibly  a  few  new  characters  worth 
knowing  may  be  introduced  to  the  reader. 

Though  I  have  tried  hard  to  keep  myself  and  my 
belongings  out  of  the  book,  it  was  inevitable  that  the 
first  personal  pronoun  should  occasionally  obtrude  itself, 
especially  in  earlier  years  when  "  I  "  was  the  centre  of 
the  world  and  the  surrounding  circle  very  small. 

For  the  rest,  it  is  gossip  rather  than  history  I  have 
written,  giving  the  go-by  for  the  most  part  to  serious 
events  and  retailing  the  humorous  stories  or  amusing 
incidents  that  have  come  my  way. 

My  father  was  a  Bodkin  of  Galway.  We  have  it  on  the 
high  authority  of  Lever  that 

The  Bodkins  sneeze  at  the  grim  Chinese, 
They  come  from  the  Phoenicians. 

Moreover,  they  boast  themselves  one  of  the  famous 
Twelve  Tribes  of  Ye  Ancient  Citie  of  Galway.  Many  and 
various  are  the  accounts  of  the  origin  of  the  Tribes.  I 
only  remember  one  which  the  great  preacher  and  famous 
humorist,  Father  Tom  Burke,  O.P.,  of  whom  I  shall  have 
more  to  say  later  on,  used  to  tell  with  infinite  relish. 
It  was  a  version,  I  may  add,  not  popular  with  members  of 
the  Tribes. 

In  the  good  old  times  a  Spanish  ship  was  wrecked  off 
the  coast  of  Galway.  The  crew  were  rescued  and  brought 
before  the  King  of  Connaught,  who  was  a  mighty  monarch 
in  those  days.  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed 


OLD  TIMES   IN  THE  WEST  OF  IRELAND      3 

in  the  least  like  the  King  of  Connaught.  There  was,  how- 
ever, one  serious  defect  in  his  gorgeous  get-up.  Like  Achilles, 
he  was  vulnerable  in  the  heel.  In  plain  English,  the  re- 
splendent sovereign  went  barefoot.  It  is  not  surprising, 
therefore,  that  he  cast  covetous  eyes  at  the  stout  leather 
brogues  in  which  the  feet  of  the  Spanish  prisoners  were 
encased.  Pair  after  pair  he  tried  them  on  himself  vainly, 
as  the  wicked  sisters  tried  on  the  slipper  of  Cinderella.  The 
feet  of  the  monarch  were  of  royal  proportions,  and  the 
kingly  toes  could  not  be  squeezed  into  any  one  of  the 
brogues. 

Thereupon  he  returned  the  prisoners  to  the  King  of 
Spain  with  handsome  presents  for  his  brother  sovereign, 
and  a  request,  couched  in  the  choicest  language  of  diplomacy, 
that  his  Majesty  of  Spain  should  send  in  return  twelve  pairs 
of  the  biggest  brogues  in  his  kingdom.  Either  the  Connaught 
King's  handwriting  was  illegible  or  an  initial  letter  got 
obliterated  by  the  salt  water.  This  much,  at  least,  is  certain  : 
when  the  document  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  King  of  Spain 
it  read  "  twelve  pairs  of  the  biggest  rogues  in  Spain." 
Very  willingly  the  King  complied  with  the  strange  request, 
the  rogues  were  collected  by  proclamation  and  the 
cargo  dispatched.  Thus  were  founded  the  Twelve  Tribes 
of  Galway.  But  it  is  not  always  safe  to  tell  this  story  in 
mixed  company  in  Connaught. 

I  come  of  a  medical  family.  My  father  was  a  doctor,  my 
elder  and  only  brother  was  a  doctor,  my  three  brothers-in- 
law  were  doctors  and  my  eldest  nephew  belonged  to  the 
same  profession. 

My  father's  name  and  fame  are  still  remembered  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  western  province,  where  he 
was  affectionately  known  as  "  the  poor  man's  doctor  "  by 
reason  of  his  special  kindness  to  the  poor.  From  his  resi- 
dence in  Tuam  his  practice  extended  to  the  remotest  corner 
of  Galway  and  Mayo,  even  to  the  outlying  islands  of  Arran, 
Clare  and  Achill.  In  the  days  before  railways  he  frequently 
drove  sixty  miles  on  a  relay  of  outside  cars  to  visit  a  patient. 

As  a  boy  I  had  often  accompanied  him  on  many  of  his 
calls,  and  so  learnt  to  know  and  love  western  peasants, 


4         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

who  in  instinct  and  manner  are  the  finest  gentlemen  in  the 
world. 

It  is  perhaps  not  unnatural  that  I  should  overestimate 
my  father's  reputation,  but  I  am  fortified  by  the  opinion 
of  his  class-fellow  and  lifelong  friend,  Sir  Dominick  Corri- 
gan,  who  once  said  to  me,  "  If  your  father  had  settled  in 
Dublin  he  would  have  beaten  us  all." 

As  no  sort  of  sequence  is  attempted  in  these  roundabout 
recollections,  as  well  here  as  elsewhere  may  be  said  a  few 
words  about  the  most  famous  physician  of  his  generation. 
Sir  Dominick  Corrigan,  as  I  remember  him  in  the  very 
height  of  his  fame,  was  the  least  affected  or  pretentious  of 
men.  The  mysticism  of  the  medical  man  had  no  attraction 
for  him.  He  did  not  believe  in  humouring  the  hypochon- 
driac, however  rich  or  important. 

On  one  occasion  he  was  visited  by  a  very  wealthy  old 
gentleman,  who  regarded  his  own  ailments,  real  or 
imaginary,  the  one  thing  of  supreme  importance  in  the 
universe. 

The  patient  began  a  history  of  his  health,  dating  from 
his  earliest  childhood.  Sir  Dominick  listened  blandly  for 
a  moment,  then  lapsed  into  a  brown  study.  Before  the 
narrative  had  carried  the  patient  through  a  boyish  attack 
of  the  measles  the  great  doctor  stood  up,  shook  hands, 
wished  him  a  cordial  good  morning,  pocketed  his  fee  and 
rang  the  bell  for  the  next  of  the  expectant  crowd  that 
all  day  and  every  day  thronged  his  parlours. 

As  the  utterly  bewildered  patient  was  being  bowed 
politely  to  the  door  he  found  courage  to  stammer  out : 

"  Is  there  anything  I  should  take,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"'said  the  famous  doctor,  "  take  a  little  seakale 
occasionally  with  your  dinner." 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  ?  "  gasped  the  dumbfounded 
patient. 

"  You  may  have  a  little  melted  butter  over  it,"  said  the 
doctor. 

My  father  used  to  tell  a  story  of  his  old  friend  that  ran 
somewhat  on  the  same  lines.  A  very  able,  but  simple- 
minded  bishop,  the  late  Dr.  Duggan,  by  his  advice  visited 


THOMAS  BODKIN,  F.R. C.S.I. 

"  The  Poor  Man's  Doc'.or." 


p.  4 


OLD  TIMES   IN  THE  WEST  OF  IRELAND       5 

Sir  Dominick  while  in  Dublin  and  returned  enraptured 
with  the  skill  of  the  great  physician. 

"  You  country  doctors,"  said  his  lordship,  "  are  well 
enough  in  your  way,  but  in  diagnosis  and  treatment  you  are 
not  in  it  with  the  great  Dublin  consultants  who  trust  to  diet, 
not  physic.  What  do  you  think  Corrigan  ordered  me  to 
take  at  my  breakfast  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  say." 

"  Toast." 

"  Well,  there  was  nothing  very  recondite  about  that." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  was  I  to  have  it  buttered  or  un- 
buttered  ?  " 

"  Unbuttered." 

"  Wrong." 

"  Buttered  then,  I  suppose." 

"  On  one  side  or  on  both  ?  " 

"  On  both." 

"  Wrong  again.  He  specially  insisted  that  it  should  be 
buttered  only  on  one  side.  It  is  an  apparently  unimportant 
detail  like  that  that  the  nice  discrimination  of  the  really 
great  physician  is  displayed." 

On  another  occasion  my  father  brought  Corrigan  down 
specially  to  see  a  wealthy  patient  of  his  in  the  County  of 
Galway.  Sir  Dominick  was  much  more  confident  than  my 
father  of  the  patient's  recovery.  Still,  with  the  doctor's 
proverbial  caution  he  declined  to  commit  himself.  "  In  a 
week's  time,"  he  said,  "  I  expect  he  will  be  completely  out 
of  danger."  Within  a  week's  time  the  patient  was  dead. 
When  Sir  Dominick  met  my  father  some  time  after  he 
inquired  : 

"  Well,  Bodkin,  how  is  our  patient  ?  " 

"  Dead." 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so.  I  suppose  his  people  regard  me 
as  an  absolute  fraud  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  they  consider  you  a  prophet ;  a  medical 
magician." 

"  In  the  name  of  wonder,  why  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  told  them  ?  " 

"  That  the  patient  would  recover." 


6         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  No,  you  said  in  a  week's  time  he  would  be  out  of  danger." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  He  died  the  last  hour  of  the  last  day  of  the  week.  They 
are  convinced  if  he  had  lived  another  hour  he  would  have 
been  safe." 

One  other  story  may  be  slipped  in  here  characteristic  of 
the  genial  Corrigan's  good-humour.  He  had  for  a  patient 
a  prominent  solicitor  named  Meldon,  a  contemporary  of  his 
own,  and  like  himself  a  martyr  to  well-earned  gout.  Corrigan 
advised  him  to  abstain  from  champagne :  he  took  the  advice, 
and  his  gout  almost  entirely  disappeared.  It  chanced, 
however,  some  months  later,  that  he  was  dining  at  a  big 
public  banquet  side  by  side  with  his  physician.  The  cham- 
pagne was  of  an  attractive  brand,  but  Meldon  reluctantly 
covered  his  glass  with  his  hand  as  the  bottle  came  round. 
To  his  amazement  Corrigan's  glass  was  regularly  filled  and 
drained.  Flesh  and  blood  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"  Corrigan,"  he  began,  "  didn't  you  tell  me  champagne 
was  bad  for  gout  ?  " 

"  So  it  is.    How  is  your  gout  since  you  gave  it  up  ?  " 

"  Almost  gone.    But " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  You  are  as  great  a  victim  to  the  gout  as  ever  I  was." 

"  Greater,  my  dear  fellow,  greater." 

"  Then  why  in  the  devil's  name  do  you  drink  champagne?" 

"I  will  answer  your  question,  Meldon,  by  another.  Which 
do  you  prefer,  your  health  or  your  champagne  ?  " 

"  My  health,  of  course." 

"  Well,  I  prefer  my  champagne." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said. 

My  father  had  many  stories  to  tell  of  the  rollicking, 
devil-may-care  gentry  of  Galway  and  Mayo,  stories  which 
acquit  Charles  Lever  of  the  charge  of  exaggeration.  The  two 
chief  heroes  of  the  stories  were  John  Bodkin  of  Kilclooney, 
M.P.  for  the  County  of  Galway,  and  "  Big  Joe  McDonnell," 
M.P.,  of  Doo  Castle  (aptly  so  named),  member  for  the  County 
of  Mayo. 

In  those  days  it  was  a  common  custom  after  the  ladies 
had  retired  from  dinner  to  lock  the  door  on  the  inside  and 


OLD  TIMES   IN  THE  WEST  OF   IRELAND      7 

throw  the  key  out  of  the  window.  Then  every  man  was 
compelled,  in  the  immortal  words  of  Betsy  Prig,  "  to  drink 
fair."  A  pint  of  salt  water  was  the  penalty  for  refusing  a 
bumper  of  claret  at  every  round  of  the  decanter.  Is  it  to 
be  wondered  at  that  many  of  the  guests  spent  the  remnant 
of  the  night  on  the  carpet  under  the  dining-table  ?  Nor 
were  these  customs  wholly  confined  to  the  West.  I  have 
now  in  my  possession  a  vast  round  table  of  shiny  black 
mahogany  with  a  huge  mahogany  trunk  for  its  central 
pillar.  It  is  reputed  to  have  been  the  dining-table  of  Lord 
Mountjoy,  which  I  deported  from  his  former  mansion  in 
Henrietta  Street.  When  it  first  came  into  my  possession 
the  under  edges  were  carefully  padded  with  worn  green 
baize.  I  can  find  no  other  explanation  of  the  padding  of 
the  table  than  the  host's  considerate  regard  for  the  heads 
of  his  guests  when  they  chanced  to  fall  under  it. 

The  gentry  of  Connaught  were  indeed  as  high-spirited 
and  irresponsible  as  schoolboys.  One  St.  Stephen's  Day, 
about  three-quarters  of  a  century  ago,  my  father  was  one  of  a 
large  house  party  at  Kilclooney.  In  the  County  of  Galway 
St.  Stephen's  Day  was  always  the  great  fox-hunting  meet 
of  the  year.  On  that  particular  day  the  "Galway  Blazers" 
were  to  draw  the  famous  fox  covers  of  Kilclooney,  but  the 
previous  night  a  black  frost  had  set  in  and  made  fox-hunting 
impossible. 

Here  were  a  score  of  red-coated  gentlemen  with  nothing ; 
absolutely  nothing,  to  do.  For  a  while  they  grouped  them- 
selves impatiently  at  the  windows  in  vain  expectation  of  a 
thaw.  Suddenly  a  bright  idea  struck  the  host.  "  Come  on, 
boys,"  he  cried,  "  we'll  hunt  the  wren  !  " 

The  suggestion  was  received  with  a  whoop  of  welcome, 
and  the  whole  party  of  the  chief  men  of  the  county  sallied 
forth  in  clamorous  pursuit  of  the  "  King  of  All  Birds," 
whom  they  chased  through  hedges  and  ditches  till  sundown, 
returning  with  a  wholesome  appetite  and  an  all-consuming 
thirst  to  dinner  at  Kilclooney. 

The  Galway  gentleman  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  philos- 
ophy of  Horace,  he  took  the  good  which  to-day  had  to  give 
him  with  no  thought  of  yesterday  or  to-morrow.  John 


8         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Bodkin  of  Kilclooney  was  involved  in  a  Chancery  suit  in 
which  a  valuable  slice  of  his  large  estate  was  at  stake.  An 
essential  affidavit  was  to  be  sworn  by  the  owner  of  the 
property.  Early  one  morning  his  solicitor  drove  about  six 
miles  from  Tuam  to  Kilclooney  to  find  his  erratic  client  at 
home. 

"  Go  into  Tuam  to  swear  an  affidavit ! "  protested  John 
Bodkin ;  "  quite  impossible,  my  dear  fellow.  It's  the  best 
day  for  trout  that  has  come  this  year  "  (he  was  the  best 
fly  fisher  in  Galway).  "  We  may  not  have  another  like  it 
for  twelve  months." 

The  solicitor,  however,  helped  by  my  father,  over-per- 
suaded him.  He  actually  got  on  the  car  for  the  drive,  but 
as  the  horse  was  starting  he  shouted,  "  Wait  a  moment !  " 

Then  plunging  through  the  open  door  of  the  room  he  was 
pleased  to  call  his  study,  he  picked  up  his  trout-rod  and 
vanished  through  the  back  door  into  the  open  world  beyond. 
There  were  fish  to  be  caught,  and  affidavit  and  estate 
might  go  hang. 

Even  John  Bodkin  of  Kilclooney,  however,  pales  his 
ineffectual  fire  before  "  Big  Joe  McDonnell "  of  Doo  Castle. 
For  many  years  he  had  represented  his  county  in  Parliament 
without  even  once  opening  his  lips  in  the  House.  Politics 
apart,  the  position  of  Member  of  Parliament  was  very  useful 
to  Joe.  He  found  the  immunity  from  debt  which  it  conferred 
particularly  convenient.  For  Joe  always  abounded  in 
creditors.  The  righteous  indignation  of  the  Irish  landlords 
of  our  own  time — when  the  tenants  obstructed  the  "  processes 
of  the  law  " — is  a  little  comical  when  it  is  remembered  that 
a  favourite  landlord  amusement  in  the  old  days  was  to 
make  the  process  server  swallow  the  writs  he  came  to  serve. 

A  Dublin  wine  merchant,  from  whom  Joe  had  carried  off 
to  Doo  Castle  (on  credit  of  course)  a  canal  boat  of  his 
choicest  wines,  began  after  a  time,  possibly  made  nervous 
from  echoing  rumours  of  Joe's  reputation,  to  press  hard 
for  payment. 

Joe  responded  by  a  cordial  invitation  to  visit  him  at  Doo 
Castle,  and  the  merchant  went.  It  was  a  scene  of  open-door 
rollicking  hospitality.  The  good  merchant's  choicest  wines 


"  BIG  JOE  MCDONNELL" 

Of  Doo  Castle,  one  time  M.P.  for  Mayo. 


p.  8 


OLD  TIMES   IN  THE  WEST  OF  IRELAND      9 

were  drunk  by  the  jovial  host  and  guests  in  tumblerfuls. 
After  a  few  days  he  could  endure  it  no  longer.  By  this  time 
he  had  almost  abandoned  hope  of  payment,  but  he  thought 
he  might  make  some  salvage  from  the  wreck.  One  morning 
he  appealed  to  Joe  in  the  room  he  called  his  study  at  Doo 
Castle. 

"  Mr.  McDonnell,"  he  said,  "  may  I  have  a  word  with 
you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  boy,  certainly.    Only  too  delighted." 

"  Well,  I  am  a  little  embarrassed,  and  you  may  help  me 
out.  I  have  an  order  from  a  very  old  customer  for  some  of 
the  vintage  wines  I  have  supplied  to  you ;  unfortunately  I 
have  none  in  stock,  so  I  thought  you  might  perhaps  let  me 
have  some  back.  I  would  allow  you  of  course  the  full  price 
in  your  account." 

"  That's  kind  of  you,  very  kind  indeed." 

"  I  would  not  inconvenience  you  for  the  world,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  gentlemen  I  have  met  here  would  just 
as  soon  have  whiskey  punch  as  those  wines." 

"  As  soon  have  it !  "  interrupted  Joe ;  "  they  would  a  great 
deal  sooner  have  it,  if  they  could  get  it." 

"  Then  in  the  name  of  goodness,"  cried  the  merchant, 
startled  out  of  his  prim  propriety,  "  why  not  let  them  have 
whiskey  punch  instead  of  costly  wine  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  whispered  Joe  confidentially,  with  his 
hand  on  the  other's  knee,  "  where  do  you  think  would  I  find 
the  ready  money  for  the  lemons  ?  " 

As  I  have  said,  Joe  never  opened  his  lips  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  but  there  was  no  more  persuasive  speaker  on 
the  hustings,  none  more  adroit  in  the  art  of  bamboozling  a 
crowd. 

Let  a  single  illustration  suffice.  On  one  occasion  Joe, 
standing  as  the  champion  of  the  "  ould  faith  "  in  Mayo, 
was  caught  by  a  horrified  supporter  eating  meat  on  Friday. 
Instantly  his  popularity  departed.  There  was  a  shout  of 
derision  when  he  appeared  on  a  platform.  "  Give  him  an 
egg,  boys,  to  take  the  taste  of  mate  off  his  mouth  !  "  and  an 
egg  whizzed  past  his  ear.  "  Big  Joe  "  was  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket. 


io       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  Does  anyone  here,"  he  roared  out  in  a  voice  of  thunder 
that  dominated  the  tumult,  "  does  anyone  here  know  the 
handwriting  of  His  Holiness  Pope  Pius  the  Ninth  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  No  one  seemed  to  know  the 
handwriting  of  His  Holiness.  Without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  Joe  read  the  letter  at  the  top  of  his  voice  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  JOE, 

"  I  am  well  pleased  to  hear  you  are  fighting  for  the 
old  faith  down  in  Mayo.  You  are  neither  to  fast  nor  abstain 
while  the  good  work  is  in  hand. 

"  With  kindest  regards  for  yourself  and  the  boys  that  are 
helping  you,  I  remain, 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  POPE  Pius  IX." 

A  roar  of  applause  followed  the  name,  and  "  Big  Joe  " 
was  once  more  the  popular  hero. 

"  Big  Joe  McDonnell "  drank  twenty-one  tumblers  of 
punch  regularly  every  night  after  his  dinner,  so  I  have 
heard  from  a  dozen  eyewitnesses.  But  I  was  privileged  to 
see  a  letter  written  a  short  time  before  his  death,  in  his 
seventy-sixth  year,  in  which  he  strongly  recommended 
temperance  to  the  young  men  of  Ireland.  There  was  this 
much  justification  for  his  homily,  that  no  man  ever  saw 
him  drunk  or  even  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  The  per- 
nicious habit  of  tippling  in  the  morning  or  afternoon  was 
unknown  to  the  wild  gentry  of  Ireland.  They  tasted  no 
stimulant  before  dinner,  but  they  dined  about  four  o'clock 
and  after  that  the  supply  of  liquor  was  unlimited. 

In  those  days  there  was  amongst  the  Irish  gentry  in  the 
West  a  class  called  "  Sunday  men,"  and  to  that  class  for 
many  years  of  his  life  "  Big  Joe  "  belonged.  "  Sunday  men  " 
during  weekdays  were  beleaguered  in  their  fortresses  by  an 
army  of  bailiffs,  but  Sunday  was  to  them  veritably  a  day  of 
liberty  and  rest.  The  story  goes  that  "  Big  Joe  "  being  hotly 
pursued  by  a  bailiff  went  to  earth  in  the  hospitable  house  of 
the  attorney  who  had  taken  out  the  judgment  against  him. 
There  he  dined,  drank  punch,  played  cards  and  won  heavily. 
But  a  little  after  midnight  he  said  to  his  host,  "  It's  time  for 


OLD  TIMES  IN  THE  WEST  OF  IRELAND       n 

me  to  be  going  home.  It  is  Sunday  morning  now,  and  I 
have  already  kept  that  poor  fellow  of  yours  too  long  waiting 
outside  in  the  cold." 

On  another  occasion  Joe  inaugurated  a  fox  hunt  by 
moonlight.  There  was  danger  that  the  huntsmen  might  be 
hunted  if  they  appeared  in  the  daytime,  so  they  hunted  and 
killed  their  fox  by  the  light  of  a  full  moon  and  returned 
gaily  to  an  early  breakfast  in  Doo  Castle. 

Justice  as  administered  by  those  country  squires,  who  in 
those  days  monopolized  the  magisterial  bench,  was  a 
curious  production.  The  "  code  under  the  palm  tree  "  was 
not  less  hampered  by  any  settled  system  of  law.  Yet  there 
is  a  story  extant  in  the  West  of  Ireland  that  proves  that 
those  magistrates  of  the  old  school  realized  the  responsi- 
bility of  their  office. 

Mr.  Burke  was  a  magistrate  of  large  property  and  position 
in  his  county,  but  he  was  not  exempt  from  the  failings  of 
his  class  and  time.  On  festive  occasions  when  flustered  with 
flowing  cups,  or  full  of  supper  and  distempering  drinks,  he 
gave  some  trouble  to  the  police. 

When  summoned  before  himself,  the  only  magistrate 
that  habitually  sat  in  the  local  court,  the  culprit  on  the 
bench  was  accustomed  to  cross-examine  the  indulgent  police 
sergeant  as  to  the  character  of  the  offence. 

"  You  say  the  man  was  drunk,  sergeant.  Was  he  in- 
capable ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  that,  your  worship." 

"  Did  he  resist  the  police  ?  " 

"  Not  what  you  would  call  resist." 

"  Remember  you  are  on  your  oath." 

"  Well,  there  was  a  bit  of  a  scrimmage." 

"  Disgraceful,  disgraceful.  How  often  has  this  man  been 
before  me  ?  " 

The  charge  sheets  were  examined  and  disclosed  a  number 
of  previous  convictions.  "  An  habitual  offender,"  was  the 
magistrate's  stern  comment  from  the  bench.  "  I  fear  I 
must  inflict  a  sharp  term  of  imprisonment." 

The  sergeant  pleaded  for  mercy,  and  ultimately  a  fine 
was  imposed  with  a  stern  caution  to  the  culprit  as  to  what 


12       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

was  likely  to  happen  if  he  was  again  brought  before  the 
court. 

The  popular  story  runs  that  "  Big  Joe's  "  assets  consisted 
of  a  flute,  a  bagpipes  and  an  Irish  setter.  It  is  certain  he 
was  an  accomplished  player  on  the  bagpipes.  His  bagpipes 
came  into  possession  of  his  granddaughter,  Miss  D'Arcy, 
who  presented  them  to  the  National  Museum.  It  is  said 
that  on  one  occasion  "  Big  Joe  "  determined  to  enliven  the 
dull  routine  of  the  House  of  Commons  by  a  spirited  tune 
on  his  favourite  pipes,  and  with  this  intent  had  carried  his 
instrument  with  him  into  the  front  lobby,  but  was  captured 
by  his  friends  at  the  door  of  the  legislative  chamber. 


CHAPTER    II 
EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS 

Narrow  escapes — Efforts  of  memory — "  Wages,  not  punishment  " — 
Keeping  the  peace — Innocent  arson — Father  Delany — "  A  New  De- 
parture in  Catholic  Education  " — A  question  of  honour — "  Our  Bill  " — 
"  Barred  out." 

r  I  ^HERE  is  a  strong  temptation  to  set  down  here  some- 
JL  thing  of  the  thoughts,  feelings,  incidents  and  enjoy- 
ment of  my  young  days.  Looking  back  as  one  looks  from 
a  distance  on  a  valley  on  which  the  sunshine  is  smiling, 
those  days  of  one's  youth  are  so  vivid,  so  real,  that  one  is 
apt  to  forget  how  little  interest  they  have  for  outsiders. 
Besides,  I  am  pledged  to  brevity.  I  am  writing  not  as  an 
actor,  but  as  a  spectator ;  I  am  telling  of  things  seen  and 
heard,  and  I  will  compress  the  days  of  my  youth  into  as 
few  pages  as  possible. 

When  I  was  just  two  years  old,  so  I  have  been  told,  I 
was  industriously  engaged  in  humble  imitation  of  the 
gardener  sowing  seed  on  the  broad  flags  in  front  of  our 
house  in  Tuam,  in  confident  hope  of  an  abundant  harvest. 
I  went  over  the  verge,  tumbled  down  a  flight  of  stone  steps 
and  gashed  my  temple  on  a  sharp  angle  at  the  bottom. 
The  whole  incident  is  as  clear  in  my  mind  as  if  it  happened 
yesterday.  I  vividly  remember  my  mother  sitting  with  me 
in  her  lap,  holding  the  wound  together  while  the  servant 
scoured  the  town  for  my  father.  Then  darkness  closed 
round  me,  and  I  remember  nothing  else  for  years.  A  deep 
dinge  over  my  eyebrow  remains  as  a  memento  of  the 
incident. 

Just  such  another  accident  may  be  mentioned,  though  a 
little  out  of  its  order.  I  wonder  how  many  reckless  boys 
have  had  a  similar  experience  !  It  chanced  when  I  was 

13 


i4       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

about  ten  years  old  my  father  one  day  brought  home  a 
revolver,  a  queer,  stumpy,  old-fashioned  thing  quite  unlike 
the  modern  weapon.  There  were  six  barrels  all  the  same 
length  revolving  on  a  pivot,  and  the  muzzle  looked  like  a 
circular  section  of  honeycomb.  But  it  was  good  enough 
to  fire  boyish  imagination  already  superheated  by  the  Wild 
West  stories  of  Mayne  Reid  and  Fenimore  Cooper.  I  watched 
my  father  practise  with  it  in  the  garden,  I  discovered  where 
he  had  hidden  it  in  his  study.  Then  one  afternoon  I  found 
myself  there  alone  with  the  fascinating  weapon  in  my  hand. 
It  was  uncapped,  which  to  my  boyish  mind  meant  it  was 
unloaded.  But  I  was  not  to  be  cheated  out  of  the  treat  I 
had  promised  myself.  I  set  the  head  of  a  match  to  the 
nipple,  pressed  the  circle  of  six  barrels  to  my  forehead  and 
tugged  at  the  trigger.  Luckily  for  me  the  improvised  cap 
dropped  off  with  the  jerk.  Having  carefully  replaced  it,  I 
put  the  pistol  between  my  knees  and  pulled  hard  with  two 
fingers.  The  barrels  revolved,  and  the  cock  rose  and  fell. 
There  was  a  stunning  report,  and  the  room  was  filled  with 
the  smoke  and  pungent  smell  of  gunpowder.  When  I  re- 
covered from  my  terror  I  discovered  a  little  round  bullet- 
hole  through  the  bottom  of  the  shutter  instead  of  through 
my  foolish  head.  Strangely  enough,  the  report  was  not 
heard  outside  the  closed  door  of  the  study.  I  never  confessed 
and  I  was  never  discovered,  but  I  fancy  I  will  never  again 
be  so  near  death  till  I  die. 

If  I  have  any  qualification  at  all  for  the  task  I  have  here 
set  myself,  it  is  a  memory  curiously  effective  and  defective. 
What  it  catches  it  catches  easily  and  holds,  but  then  there 
are  many  things  it  never  catches  at  all.  I  find  it  almost 
impossible  to  remember  a  name,  a  date  or  a  place.  But 
anything  else  I  read,  hear  or  see  I  can  recall  and  retain 
with  curious  accuracy.  In  my  younger  days  I  could 
repeat  a  long  poem  verbatim  after  one  or  two  readings. 
Later  on,  as  a  reporter,  without  a  single  note  I  could  write 
two  columns  and  a  half  of  a  three-column  speech,  a  great 
part  in  the  words  of  the  speaker.  This  faculty,  as  may  be 
imagined,  was  very  serviceable  to  a  newspaper  writer.  I 
seem  to  have  been  born  with  this  mental  equipment. 


EARLY   RECOLLECTIONS  15 

In  yet  one  other  respect  the  child  was  father  to  the  man. 
I  was  the  most  untidy  of  children,  and  the  good  nuns  who 
were  my  earliest  guides  in  the  paths  of  knowledge  were 
continually  aghast  at  my  performance  and  appearance. 

There  was  an  old-fashioned  well  in  the  convent  grounds 
where  a  bucket  was  let  down  by  a  rope  and  windlass  to 
the  water  far  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  deep,  black  hole. 
In  a  moment  of  inspiration,  one  of  the  good  Sisters  threatened 
that  if  I  came  dirty  to  school  again  I  should  be  let  down 
in  the  bucket  and  washed  in  the  mysterious  water  in  the 
bottom  of  the  well.  Little  the  timid  lady  appreciated  the 
vagaries  of  a  boy's  mind.  My  imagination  was  fired  at  the 
prospect  of  the  adventure.  To  me  it  was  wages  and  not 
punishment.  Next  morning  on  my  way  to  school  I  qualified 
at  every  puddle  I  met  for  the  delightful  expedition,  pre- 
senting myself  before  the  eye  of  the  horrified  nun  a  mass 
of  mud,  eagerly  claiming  the  punishment  of  my  mis- 
conduct. 

From  the  convent  school  I  passed  at  a  very  early  age  to 
the  Christian  Brothers.  But  here  after  a  few  months  my 
education  was  interrupted  by  a  very  curious  incident  that 
is  perhaps  worth  recording  as  indicative  of  the  sectarian 
feeling  in  those  days,  the  injustice  it  inflicted  and  the  re- 
prisals it  provoked. 

At  that  time  sectarianism  was  rampant  in  Tuam.  There 
was  in  the  town  a  Protestant  vicar,  the  reverend  Mr.  Sey- 
more,  who  felt  he  had  a  mission  for  the  forcible  conversion 
of  benighted  Papists.  The  Catholic  festival  of  Corpus 
Christ  i  was  always  celebrated  by  a  procession  in  the  grounds 
of  the  Catholic  Cathedral,  with  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
carried  under  a  canopy.  All  the  inhabitants  of  the  town 
and  of  the  neighbouring  country,  men  and  women,  young 
and  old,  flocked  to  this  festival.  On  one  occasion  it  was 
subjected  to  a  startling  interruption.  As  the  procession, 
chanting  a  solemn  strain  with  the  Host  in  its  brilliant 
setting  exposed  to  the  reverent  gaze  of  the  worshippers, 
moved  slowly  along  the  Cathedral  grounds,  the  people  were 
aware  of  the  wild  figure  of  the  militant  vicar  perched  on  a 
barrel  in  front  of  the  great  iron  gates.  The  barrel  on  which 


16       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

he  stood  was  stuffed  full  of  Bibles  for  the  use  of  his  expected 
converts.  Of  a  sudden  he  waved  his  arms  over  his  head  and 
shouted  in  a  voice  of  thunder  : 

"  Repent,  you  blind  idolaters,  who  worship  a  wafer  for 
a  God  !  " 

What  else  he  would  have  said  was  never  known.  There 
was  a  rush  of  the  angry  crowd,  the  barrel  was  stove  in  and 
the  flying  missionary  pelted  with  Bibles  through  the  streets 
of  the  town.  It  is  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  but  I 
remember  it  more  vividly  than  if  it  were  yesterday.  The 
wild  figure  in  full  flight  with  long  coat-tails  streaming  in  the 
wind,  and  the  shower  of  Bibles  with  the  leaves  fluttering  and 
torn  that  followed  him. 

When  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi  again  approached  the 
enterprising  vicar  applied  for  police  protection,  fearing,  as 
he  swore,  a  breach  of  the  peace.  The  demand  was  granted, 
and  fifty  extra  police  were  drafted  into  the  town.  It 
happens  that  my  father's  house  stands  in  the  direct  route, 
almost  midway  between  the  Protestant  vicarage  and  the 
Catholic  Cathedral.  Early  in  the  morning  of  Corpus  Christi, 
the  District  Inspector  encamped  his  forces  on  the  stone 
steps  and  along  the  railings  facing  our  house.  Later  on 
the  worthy  representative  of  the  Church  militant  made  his 
appearance,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  Bibles.  The  District 
Inspector  politely  accosted  him  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Seymore,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
cannot  allow  you  to  pass." 

The  amazement  and  indignation  of  the  vicar  passed  all 
bounds. 

"  I  have  a  duty  to  perform,"  he  said.  "  A  sacred  duty 
to  rebuke  idolatry." 

"  And  I,"  retorted  the  inspector,  "  have  a  duty  to  per- 
form, to  prevent  a  breach  of  the  peace." 

"  You  were  sent  here  to  protect  me  from  violence." 

"  I  will  prevent  you  from  provoking  it.  The  best  way 
to  keep  the  peace  is  to  keep  you  where  you  are." 

In  vain  were  the  protests  and  threats  of  spiritual  and 
temporal  punishment.  The  unfortunate  vicar  was  hoist 
with  his  own  petard.  All  day  he  paced  up  and  down  the 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS  17 

dusty  road  in  front  of  the  imperturbable  police,  like  Carle- 
ton's  little  tailor,  "  dry  mouldy  for  want  of  a  beating." 

This  same  vicar  was  grand  vizier  to  Bishop  Plunkett,  who 
lived  in  a  handsome  palace  with  beautifully  wooded  grounds 
close  to  the  town.  Amongst  the  Catholics  of  Tuam,  who 
formed  the  overwhelming  majority  of  the  population,  the 
proselytizing  vicar  got  the  chief  credit,  or  discredit,  for  the 
sharp  practices  of  his  lordship. 

I  was  in  the  very  lowest  class  of  the  old  Christian  Brothers' 
school  that  stood  on  the  hill  on  the  outskirts  of  Tuam, 
when  the  catastrophe  occurred  which  I  am  about  to  relate. 
The  school  had  been  erected  at  the  cost  of  something  over 
£1000  (collected  amongst  the  Catholic  townspeople),  on  a 
site  acquired  at  a  twenty-one  years'  lease  from  the  Protes- 
tant bishop,  who  was  head  landlord  of  a  third  of  the  town. 
It  was  naturally  assumed  that  the  lease  would  be  renewed. 
But  to  the  surprise  and  indignation  of  the  Catholics,  the 
day  it  expired  the  Christian  Brothers  got  notice  to  quit 
and,  to  add  insult  to  injury,  it  was  decreed  that  their  school 
should  be  converted  into  an  active  branch  of  the  Irish 
Church  Mission  Proselytizing  Association. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the  great  majority  of  the  Pro- 
testants of  the  town  were  as  indignant  as  the  Catholics  at 
the  sharp  practices  to  which  the  Christian  Brothers  were 
subjected  ;  but  the  law  was  the  law,  and  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  submission. 

So  the  Brothers  thought  at  least,  but  the  boys  were  of  a 
different  opinion.  In  those  days  no  National  school  was 
allowed  by  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  McHale  in  the  Archdiocese 
of  Tuam,  so  the  Christian  Brothers  had  the  monopoly  of  the 
learning  in  the  town.  They  were  immensely  popular,  not 
only  with  the  parents,  but  also  with  the  boys.  The  news 
of  the  eviction  of  the  good  Brothers  awakened  a  ferment 
of  youthful  indignation,  and  provoked  a  wild  project  of 
revenge. 

The  Christian  Brothers  were  in  due  course  evicted  from 
the  school,  and  for  one  night  it  remained  derelict,  pending 
the  triumphant  entrance  of  the  missionary  society.  That 
night  was  enough.  How  well  I  remember  it  all !  It  is  painted 


i8       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

on  my  memory  with  the  vivid  colouring  of  extreme  child- 
hood which  no  scene  painting  of  after  life  can  rival. 

The  buzzing  of  a  vast,  mysterious  conspiracy  was  around 
me  during  our  last  day  at  the  old  Christian  Brothers' 
school. 

Only  the  ringleaders  knew  exactly  what  the  project  was, 
but  even  the  youngest  of  us  knew  that  something  strange, 
daring,  terrible  and  heroic  was  in  progress. 

After  dinner  that  night  I  stole  out,  by  arrangement  with 
a  larger  boy,  whom  I  met  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  to  take 
part  in  the  conspiracy.  From  all  sides  boys  converged  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night  on  the  deserted  schoolhouse. 
How  it  happened  I  cannot  say,  or  why  it  happened,  but  I 
have  a  suspicion  that  some  secret  influence  was  at  work 
to  keep  the  police  of  the  town  close  in  their  barracks  that 
night,  with  eyes  and  ears  shut  tight  against  all  warnings 
from  without. 

Eagerly  the  boys  crept  through  broken  windows  into  the 
deserted  school,  which  they  were  wont  to  enter  with  such 
decorous  reluctance.  How  strange  and  still  and  solemn  it 
seemed,  the  contrast  how  sharp  between  the  dismal  silence 
of  that  night  and  the  noisy  life  of  the  day !  For  a  while  we 
were  all  abashed  by  the  ghosts  of  old  discipline  and  decorum 
that  haunted  the  place.  But  the  pause  was  a  brief  one,  the 
calm  before  the  storm.  A  hundred  lucifer  matches  flashed 
a  sudden  blaze,  candles  were  lit  and  the  work  of  destruction 
begun.  Oh,  how  delightful  the  conjunction  of  duty  and 
pleasure  for  a  small  boy  when  breaking  windows  was  an  act 
of  supreme  merit,  and  smashing  desks  and  chairs  a  most 
creditable  exploit ! 

I  was  talking  only  the  other  day  to  an  old  schoolmate 
who,  like  myself  when  a  mere  child,  participated  in  that 
glorious  escapade.  He  has  since  attained  a  high  ecclesias- 
tical position.  He  is  the  mildest  and  gentlest  of  men,  but 
he  remembers  that  scene  as  well  as  I  remember  it  for  one 
of  the  most  delightful,  tumultuous,  exciting  episodes  of  his 
life. 

Here  in  the  sanctum  of  learning  where  we  had  listened 
soberly  to  lessons,  where  we  had  mildly  obeyed  the  voice  of 


EARLY   RECOLLECTIONS  19 

command,  where  we  had  felt  the  avenging  twinge  of  the 
cane  ;  here  in  the  very  home  of  learning  and  discipline  we 
had  one  wild  hour  of  such  outrageous  and  tumultuous 
liberty  as  I  verily  believe  no  other  boys  have  ever  known 
before  or  since. 

We  raged  through  the  place — ink  bottles  flew  in  crashing 
showers  through  the  windows.  The  furniture,  desks,  chairs 
and  tables,  was  smashed  to  firewood  and  piled  in  great  heaps 
all  over  the  floor.  The  lesson-books,  torn  to  shreds,  provided 
the  kindling  material,  and  soon  the  entire  building  roared 
and  blazed  in  one  vast  conflagration. 

That  was  a  bonfire,  if  you  like,  and  we  danced  and  cheered 
round  it  with  a  will.  All  night  it  blazed  on  the  hill,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town ;  long  after  we  boys  had  been  reclaimed 
by  our  anxious  parents  and  slept  peaceably  in  our  beds  with 
the  consciousness  of  a  good  work  well  done,  that  great  fire 
still  blazed  triumphantly,  and  in  all  the  town  of  Tuam 
no  hand  could  be  found,  Catholic  or  Protestant,  to  attempt 
its  extinction.  When  the  grey  morning  dawned  the  old 
schoolhouse  was  no  more. 

There  was  a  trial  afterwards  at  the  Galway  Assizes  of 
some  of  the  boys  who  had  been  ringleaders  in  the  escapade, 
but  it  came  to  nothing.  A  jury  of  Protestants  and  Catholics 
concurred  in  the  acquittal.  When  the  new  schoolhouse 
came  to  be  built  for  the  Christian  Brothers  on  a  better  site, 
the  subscription  was  more  liberal  than  before,  and  almost 
every  Protestant  with  the  exception  of  the  vicar  and  bishop 
participated. 

It  would  seem  that  bigotry  and  intolerance  were  burned 
up  in  that  big  fire,  for  in  all  Ireland  there  is  now  no  town 
in  which  all  classes  and  creeds  dwell  together  in  more 
perfect  amity  than  in  Tuam. 

One  other  incident  of  those  schooldays  is  perhaps  worth 
recalling,  as  illustrating  once  again  the  peculiar  memory 
that  was  to  serve  me  well  in  after  life. 

The  Rev.  Brother  Lowe  was  accustomed  to  give  us  each 
day  half  an  hour's  religious  instruction,  admirably  conceived 
and  delivered.  For  the  better  enjoyment  of  the  discourse  I 
planted  my  arms  on  the  desk  and  my  face  on  my  arms  in 


20       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

the  attitude  of  profound  slumber,  and  listened  attentively 
to  the  lecture.  The  Brother  saw  me.  He  drew  the  obvious, 
though  as  it  happened  erroneous,  conclusion  from  my 
attitude,  and  interrupted  his  discourse  to  call  out  sharply  : 

"  Bodkin,  you  have  not  listened  to  a  single  word." 

I  protested. 

"  Then  tell  me  something  I  have  said,"  demanded  the 
Brother  sternly. 

Forthwith  I  commenced  the  lecture  from  the  beginning, 
repeated  it  verbatim  while  the  lecturer  listened  in  dumb 
surprise,  till  I  wound  up  with  his  final  exclamation,  "  Bodkin, 
you  have  not  listened  to  a  single  word." 

Forty  years  later  the  Superior-General  of  the  Christian 
Brothers,  Rev.  Brother  Moylan,  who  was  present  as  a  boy, 
reminded  me  of  the  incident,  which  had  drifted  away  into 
an  obscure  corner  of  my  memory  where  I  never  would  have 
found  it  but  for  him. 

It  is  indeed  a  little  curious  how,  as  I  write,  a  thousand 
memories  of  my  young  days  which  were  asleep  and  for- 
gotten awake  and  press  for  recognition.  My  boyhood  with 
all  its  thoughts  and  cares,  and  small  adventures  that  seemed 
so  wonderful  when  they  happened,  have  reshaped  them- 
selves like  vivid  pictures  in  my  memory.  Even  now  the 
trivialities  of  those  long  summers'  days  spent  in  birds- 
nesting  and  fishing,  the  snowball  battles  and  skating  are 
full  of  intense  interest  to  me.  I  cannot  reason  away  the 
notion  that  if  I  could  tell  them  as  they  happened  they  would 
be  of  interest  to  readers  who  have  like  precious  little  memories 
of  their  own  from  which  they  would  not  part  for  the  world. 
It  is  not  without  an  effort  that  I  compel  myself  to  skip 
those  delightful  years. 

From  the  Christian  Brothers  I  passed  to  the  Jesuit  College 
of  Tullabeg,  then  perhaps  the  best  intermediate  school  in 
Ireland.  In  the  higher  classes  I  had  for  master  (inestimable 
advantage)  the  famous  Jesuit,  Rev.  Father  William  Delany, 
afterwards  for  so  many  years  Rector  of  University  College, 
St.  Stephen's  Green,  and  Provincial  of  the  Order,  to  whom 
more  than  to  any  other  man  Catholics  are  indebted  for  the 
boon  of  university  education.  When  I  first  met  Father 


Photo  by  Lafayette,  Ltd  ,  Dublin. 

THE  REV.  WILLIAM  DELANY,  S.J.,  EX-PROVINCIAL 


P..  20 


EARLY   RECOLLECTIONS  21 

Delany,  a  man  of  about  thirty-five,  he  looked  a  mere  boy, 
almost  as  young  as  any  of  his  class. 

Under  his  guidance,  study  was  a  delight.  He  made  us 
boys  do  absolutely  what  he  wished,  however  seemingly 
impossible.  One  of  our  feats  was  a  bit  out  of  the  common. 
At  the  public  display  of  the  college,  called  "  the  annual 
conversazione,"  three  of  us  presented  ourselves  without 
books  to  repeat  from  memory,  parse,  scan  and  translate  pas- 
sages selected  at  random  from  the  second  book  of  Virgil's 
"  ^Eneid,"  a  feat  which  we  all  three  successfully  performed. 

No  one  who  ever  knew  Father  Delany  need  be  told  that 
he  is  a  man  of  fascinating  manner.  It  is  not  easy  to  describe 
the  charm  of  his  voice  and  smile.  Bigotry  and  prejudice 
could  never  survive  in  his  company. 

Once  upon  a  time  Father  Delany  attended  the  meeting 
of  the  British  Association,  held  that  year  in  Sheffield. 
The  day  after  his  arrival  he  met  in  the  offices  of  the  Asso- 
ciation a  Sheffield  man  who,  after  five  minutes'  talk,  in- 
sisted that  he  should  be  his  guest  during  his  stay  in  that 
town. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  ask,"  retorted  Father 
Delany,  "  you  don't  know  that  I'm  a  Jesuit ;  look  out  for 
your  silver  spoons." 

"  I'll  risk  it,"  said  his  would-be  host. 

Father  Delany,  however,  imagined  that  he  would  have 
more  personal  freedom  at  an  hotel,  and  declined  the  invita- 
tion to  the  manifest  disappointment  of  the  other. 

As  he  turned  away,  another  Sheffield  man  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said  abruptly ;  "  I  couldn't  help 
hearing  what  was  said  just  now,  and  you  will  be  a  fool  if 
you  refuse  that  invitation.  That  is  the  best  fellow  in  all 
Sheffield,  there  is  nowhere  you  would  have  half  so  good  a 
time." 

Later  in  the  day  the  invitation  was  cordially  renewed 
and  gratefully  accepted,  and  the  host  justified  the 
eulogium  of  his  friend. 

Some  days  before  the  close  of  the  Session  he  said  to 
Father  Delany,  "  I  want  to  give  a  little  dinner-party. 


22       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

You  invite  your  friends  and  I  will  invite  the  most  prominent 
of  our  townsmen  to  meet  them." 

Father  Delany  declares  that  he  never  sat  down  to  a 
more  incongruous  or  a  more  delightful  dinner.  Amongst 
his  guests  were  the  Rev.  Monsignor  Molloy  of  the  Catholic 
University,  and  Professor  Haughton,  the  most  brilliant  and 
the  most  versatile  of  the  Fellows  of  Trinity  College. 

A  little  while  before  Professor  Haughton,  whose  numerous 
professions  included  the  medical,  had  devoted  his  leisure 
to  devising  a  more  merciful  method  of  capital  punishment. 

Death  by  strangulation  he  regarded  as  specially  painful, 
and  he  demonstrated  that  a  longer  drop  and  a  more  flexible 
silk  rope  would  produce  instant  and  almost  painless  death 
by  dislocation  of  the  neck. 

When  the  experiment  was  first  tried,  however,  the  result 
was  startling.  Whether  the  drop  was  too  long  or  the  silk 
rope  too  pliable,  the  head  of  the  criminal  was  shorn  clean 
from  the  body. 

It  chanced  that  after  dinner  Professor  Haughton  entered 
into  an  animated  discussion  with  a  shrewd  Sheffield  man, 
in  which  the  gifted  Professor  had  the  worst  of  it. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  let  the  subject  drop,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"  How  many  feet,  Professor  ?  "  was  the  telling  retort. 

At  the  close  of  the  evening  the  host  ventured  on  a  question 
which  had  been  perplexing  the  company. 

"  Father  Delany,"  he  said,  "  none  of  us  ever  met  a 
Jesuit  before  we  met  you,  and  we  are  anxious  to  know  what 
exactly  a  Jesuit  is.  We  are  tiled  to-night ;  if  you  tell  us 
the  secret  it  will  never  go  farther." 

Father  Delany  referred  them  to  Dr.  Johnson's  definition, 
but  they  refused  to  accept  it. 

At  last  he  said,  "  I  can  only  try  to  enlighten  you  by  a 
little  anecdote.  A  friend  of  mine,  and  a  Jesuit  like  myself, 
was  lately  driving  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Belfast.  He 
had  a  very  poor  horse,  which  the  driver  stimulated  by  a 
torrent  of  abuse. 

'  Get  on,  you  cripple,'  he  cried,  '  get  on,  you  Papist,  get 
on,  you  divil,  get  on,  you  b y  old  Jesuit ! ' 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS  23 

"  In  a  quiet  interval  my  friend  put  to  the  driver  the 
question  you  have  put  to  me  to-night. 

'"I  have  heard  you  call  your  horse  a  Jesuit/  he  said  ;  '  can 
you^tell  me,  my  friend,  what  a  Jesuit  is  ?  ' 

"  The  man  scratched  his  head.  '  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know 
precisely,  but  it's  something  a  deal  worse  than  the  devil.'  ' 

Someone  at  the  dinner  must  have  broken  faith,  for  next 
day  the  story  with  the  Belfast  man's  definition  of  a  Jesuit 
was  published  in  one  of  the  principal  newspapers  of 
Sheffield. 

My  friendship  with  Father  Delany  stretched  from  my 
schooldays  far  into  after  life,  and  with  that  friendship  there 
always  mingled  something  of  the  affectionate  reverence  of 
the  pupil  for  his  favourite  master.  Just  after  I  left  he 
became  rector  of  the  college,  and  during  his  rectorship  I 
often  renewed  my  boyhood  by  a  visit  to  old  scenes  and 
associations. 

About  this  time  I  earned  his  special  favour  by  a  pamphlet 
I  wrote  over  the  signature  of  "A  Catholic  Barrister," 
entitled  "  A  New  Departure  in  Catholic  Education,"  in 
reply  to  some  strictures  not  less  unjust  than  severe  on  the 
Jesuit  system  of  education  which  had  just  been  published 
by  the  Hon.  and  Rev.  Mr.  Petre,  afterwards  Lord  Petre. 
My  reply  had  been  provoked  by  the  suggestion  that  es- 
pionage was  encouraged  in  Jesuit  schools,  a  suggestion  to 
my  own  knowledge  wholly  opposed  to  the  fact.  The  only 
instance  of  espionage  I  remember  in  my  schooldays  was 
an  amateur  spy  informing  the  Higher  Line  Prefect,  Father 
Charlie  Walsh,  that  two  boys  were  smoking  (a  high  crime 
and  misdemeanour)  behind  the  ball  alley.  His  reward  for 
the  information  was  a  resounding  box  on  the  ear. 

"  You  little  sneak,"  thundered  the  prefect,  "  that  will 
teach  you  to  come  tale-bearing  to  me." 

This  could  hardly  be  called  encouraging  espionage. 

Another  incident  which  occurred  later  under  the  rector- 
ship of  Father  Delany  illustrates  how  honour  amongst  the 
boys  was  utilized  and  encouraged  in  the  conduct  of  the 
school. 

It  happened  I  was  present  as  a  visitor  at  the  annual 


24       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

athletic  sports.  The  most  popular  event  of  the  day  was  a 
blindfold  race,  to  be  won  by  the  boy  who  first  passed 
through  a  pair  of  goal-posts  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
starting-point.  In  such  a  race  it  was  plain  chance  must 
decide,  skill  or  speed  counted  for  nothing  at  all. 
Fifty  or  sixty  boys,  their  eyes  bound  up  by  the  hard- 
worked  head  prefect,  stood  in  a  row  ready  and  eager  for 
the  race.  I  was  beside  Father  Delany  when  he  walked 
down  the  long  line  of  boys,  their  eyes  bound  up  in  variegated 
handkerchiefs  that  gleamed  bright  in  the  hot  sunshine,  one 
foot  planted  in  front  of  the  other  ready  for  the  start.  Like 
a  general  reviewing  his  troops,  Father  Delany  passed  along. 
When  he  reached  the  centre  he  stopped  short  and  cried  in  a 
voice  that  carried  clear  as  a  bell  to  the  end  of  the  row  : 

"  Remember,  boys,  you  are  on  your  honour  that  you 
cannot  see." 

At  the  word  there  was  a  wavering  and  a  breaking  up  along 
the  line.  A  score  of  boys  shamefacedly  quitted  the  ranks 
and  walked  with  self-convicting  certitude  to  the  prefect  to 
be  re-bandaged.  So  long  as  it  was  a  trial  of  cunning  between 
boy  and  prefect  it  was  lawful  to  best  the  enemy  ;  but  honour 
once  invoked  was  a  self-imposed  master  whose  orders  could 
not  be  evaded. 

It  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  I  was  immensely  proud  of 
my  pamphlet  on  Catholic  Education,  the  first  thing  in  the 
shape  of  a  book  for  which  I  was  responsible.  It  was  read 
at  the  dinner-hour  in  the  Jesuit  refectories,  in  the  great 
colleges  both  in  England  and  Ireland.  In  some  quarters  it 
was  attributed  to  Sir  Charles  Russell,  and  above  all  it 
created  a  new  bond  of  sympathy  between  my  dear  old 
masters  and  myself. 

While  on  this  subject  I  may  mention  another  matter  of 
some  importance  in  which  I  was  associated  with  Father 
Delany.  He  was  at  that  time  hand  and  glove  with  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough,  Lord-Lieutenant,  and  his  son,  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill,  the  rising  hope  of  the  Tory  party. 
Lord  Randolph  determined  on  an  Intermediate  Education 
Act  for  Ireland.  Father  Delany  was  naturally  called  into 
council.  It  chanced  that  a  little  while  afterwards  I  visited 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS  25 

him  at  the  college,  and  at  his  suggestion  made  a  rough 
draft  of  the  proposed  measure.  When  we  next  met,  the 
measure,  almost  unchanged,  was  half-way  through  the 
House  of  Commons. 

"  Well,  Father  Delany,"  I  said,  "  our  Bill  is  going 
through." 

"  Yes,  Matt,"  he  replied  triumphantly,  "  and  it  is  our  Bill." 

I  have  since,  at  times,  been  tempted  to  repent  my  humble 
share  in  the  business.  The  Bill,  whatever  its  merits,  has,  I 
fear,  helped  to  foster  cramming  and  kill  culture  in  Ireland. 
But  one  good  thing  it  certainly  did.  By  the  sharp  test  of 
competitive  examination  it  dissipated  for  ever  the  prevalent 
myth  that  the  Protestant  intermediate  schools  were  superior 
to  the  Catholic. 

But  I  have  got  in  front  of  my  story. 

When  I  left  Tullabeg  College,  I  was  naturally  anxious 
to  try  my  luck  at  a  university.  I  fancied,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  that  I  would  be  able  to  keep  myself  going 
at  Trinity  College.  But  my  mother  had  strong  con- 
scientious objections  to  the  Protestant  University,  and  we 
agreed  to  refer  the  matter  to  the  decision  of  the  great 
Dominican,  Father  Tom  Burke.  His  verdict  was  conclusive. 
"No  Catholic  could  enter  Trinity  College,"  he  declared, 
"without  danger  of  shipwreck  of  Faith  and  morals. " 

So  I  was  barred  out  from  a  university  training  which  two 
such  different  men  as  Cardinal  Newman  and  Macaulay  had 
taught  me  to  long  for.  It  is  true  I  entered  the  so-called 
Catholic  University,  which  had  neither  charter  or  endowment, 
and  even  obtained  an  exhibition  on  matriculation,  but  the 
business  was  so  wholly  futile  that  I  abandoned  it  before 
six  months  was  over,  sacrificing  my  exhibition.  A  smat- 
tering of  Terence  was  the  only  asset  derived  from  that 
wasted  six  months.  The  National  University  has,  however, 
recognized  the  sacrifice  by  the  honorary  degree  of  LL.D. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  REPORTERS'   ROOM 

"  The  hieroglyphic  monster  " — A  confiscated  notebook — The  slaves  of 
the  lamp — Tricks  of  the  trade — Dick  Adams — A  slip  of  the  pen — 
Lefroy — Guinee — "  Old  G." — Much  virtue  in  quotation  marks — 
Going  to  the  devil  with  the  country — "  The  Chief  " — Mimic  and 
story-teller. 

WITHOUT  further  delay  I  entered  for  the  Bar,  and 
while  learning  law  and  eating  dinners  I  contrived, 
by  the  influence  of  Bishop  Duggan,  to  get  a  place  as  an 
unpaid  probationer  on  the  reporting  staff  of  the  Freeman's 
Journal. 

I  have  described  my  entrance  into  Press  life  and  my 
progress  in  its  mysteries  in  a  novel,  "  White  Magic,"  mingling 
fact  with  fancy  as  fiction  writers  must.  But  the  novel  is 
not  so  widely  read  that  it  need  deter  me  from  giving  a  more 
prosaic  account  of  my  experiences. 

Dickens  describes  how  David  Copperfield  "  tamed  the 
savage  hieroglyphic  monster."  The  monster  was  more 
savage  in  his  days  than  ours ;  Pitman  has  improved  the 
breed.  All  the  same,  I  cannot  truly  say  I  ever  succeeded 
in  bringing  shorthand  into  subjection.  I  never  found  it 
pleasant  or  easy.  It  was  not  so  much  that  I  had  no  teacher 
outside  the  text  of  the  handbooks,  for  in  shorthand  it  is 
not  precept  but  practice  that  tells.  In  my  case,  however, 
practice  never  made  perfect.  At  first  I  tried  to  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone.  I  translated  a  number  of 
French  books  into  English  shorthand,  and  then  transcribed 
the  notes  into  English  long-hand.  But  I  soon  found  that 
learning  shorthand  by  reading,  or  even  by  being  read  to, 
was  learning  to  swim  without  entering  the  water.  There 
was  needed  the  living  voice  of  the  unconscious  and  un- 
accommodating speaker,  and  that  necessary  element  many 

26 


THE  REPORTERS'   ROOM  27 

eloquent  preachers  unconsciously  supplied.  Never  since 
have  I  listened  to  so  many  sermons.  But  it  was  a  risky  occu- 
pation, for  devout  old  ladies  regarded  my  note-taking  as  a 
profanity  and  jogged  the  hand  that  held  the  pencil  with 
pious  elbows.  This  did  not  matter  so  much  in  my  'prentice 
days,  but  later  when  I  was  out  of  my  time  and  was  reporting 
for  the  Freeman's  Journal  a  sermon  of  the  famous  Monsignor 
Capel,  a  formidable  old  lady  in  black  bombazine  and 
mittens  forcibly  confiscated  my  notebook.  Recapture  was 
impossible,  so  the  sermon  was  not  reported  verbatim,  and 
the  eloquent  preacher  when  he  heard  the  cause  did  not  bless 
the  over-zealous  intervener. 

Though  never  a  really  proficient  shorthand  writer,  I 
could  stumble  after  a  moderately  slow  speaker  often  half  a 
sentence  in  the  rear  without  coming  to  actual  grief. 

Newspaper  life  is  a  subject  of  very  general  curiosity. 
Yet  it  is  surprising  how  little  the  outside  public,  whom  he 
so  assiduously  serves,  knows  about  the  life  and  work  of  a 
reporter.  A  man  cultivates  acquaintance  with  his  doctor 
and  lawyer,  with  whom  his  consultations  are  rarely  agreeable 
and  always  expensive.  As  he  reads  his  newspaper  every 
morning  he  has  a  pleasant  chat,  at  the  cost  of  a  halfpenny 
or  a  penny,  with  at  least  fifty  Pressmen,  of  whose  work  and 
ways  he  has  as  little  notion  as  Aladdin  had  of  the  domestic 
life  of  the  slave  of  the  lamp.  The  universal  newspaper 
reader  must  now  and  then  be  troubled  with  a  twinge  of 
curiosity  as  to  how  news  is  collected,  and  by  whom. 

To  begin  with,  shorthand  is  the  "  Open  Sesame  "  to  a 
newspaper  office  ;  for  all  kinds  of  literary  work  it  is  useful, 
for  Press  work  it  is  almost  essential.  I  am  writing  the  rough 
copy  of  these  reminiscences  in  shorthand,  sitting  comfortably 
in  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire  with  my  notebook  on  my  knee. 
Later  on  I  shall  transcribe  them  with  such  corrections  as 
may  seem  advisable.  I  find  that  both  thoughts  and  words 
come  more  easily  when  they  can  get  down  at  once  on  the 
paper  and  have  not  to  wait  for  each  other  like  a  confused 
crowd  at  a  church  door. 

But  to  the  would-be  reporter  shorthand  is  not  a  matter  of 
convenience,  it  is  a  necessity.  It  is  the  one  test  of  com- 


28       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

petence  available.  For  success  in  the  profession  of  the 
Press  the  aspirant  will  need  quickness,  tact,  literary  aptitude 
and  a  smattering  of  universal  knowledge.  But  these  cannot 
be  tested  at  the  door.  If  a  man  can  write  even  a  hundred 
words  a  minute  and  read  them  at  sight  he  is  worth  a  trial 
as  a  reporter. 

But  if  shorthand  gets  him  in,  shorthand  alone  won't  get 
him  on.  The  young  reporter  who  by  virtue  of  his  shorthand 
undertook  to  give  a  "  verbatim  "  report  of  a  military  review 
was  never  a  very  brilliant  success  in  his  profession. 

In  England  Press  work  is  specialized,  the  Irish  reporter  is 
a  Jack  of  all  trades.  Within  an  hour  he  must  be  gay  at  a 
wedding  and  sad  at  a  funeral,  he  must  know  something  about 
everything  or  must  at  least  successfully  "assume  a  knowledge 
if  he  hath  it  not . ' '  He  must  lecture  learnedly  on  every  theme . 
He  must  teach  everybody  their  own  business — the  farmer 
farming,  the  painter  painting,  the  sculptor  sculpture,  the 
musician  music,  the  doctor  medicine,  the  lawyer  law,  and 
so  through  the  varying  phases  of  human  occupation. 

A  moral  and  intellectual  Proteus  he  must  be  prepared  to 
assume  every  mood  that  the  occasion  requires.  There  is 
nothing  he  must  not  be  ready  to  describe  at  a  moment's 
notice,  and  he  must  write  just  as  much  and  just  as  little 
as  may  be  required  by  his  editor,  dilute  his  thoughts  into 
three  columns  or  concentrate  them  into  a  paragraph. 

The  length  or  brevity  of  his  description  is  not  to  be 
regulated  by  his  experience,  knowledge  or  imagination,  or  by 
his  belief  in  the  importance  or  triviality  of  the  subject,  but 
simply  by  the  amount  of  available  space.  He  must  measure 
his  thoughts  with  the  editor's  rule,  and  supply  three  inches 
or  three  yards  as  the  occasion  may  require. 

In  the  Freeman's  Journal,  as  in  every  well-regulated 
Irish  newspaper  office,  there  is  a  chief  reporter,  whose  duty 
is  to  set  tasks  to  the  rest.  He  knows,  in  his  own  expressive 
phrase,  "  what's  on."  He  keeps  a  record  of  all  public 
proceedings,  he  has  an  instinct  for  news.  Each  morning 
the  reporters  meet  the  chief  in  the  reporters'  room,  are 
duly  "  marked  "  in  a  Doomsday  Book  for  their  respective 
tasks,  and  are  dispatched  through  city  and  country  on  their 


THE   REPORTERS'   ROOM  29 

news-collecting  missions.  Wherever  there  is  anything 
interesting  to  be  seen  or  heard  the  reporter  is  there, 
nothing  escapes  his  all-pervading  activity.  He  writes  for 
a  busy  and  curious  public  not  a  word  too  few,  not  a  word 
too  many,  so  that  he  who  runs  (for  tram  or  train)  may 
read  and  understand. 

A  reporter  is  subdued  to  what  he  works  in,  and  he  becomes 
absorbed  in  his  profession.  There  was  a  story  in  the 
reporting-room  when  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Freeman's 
Journal  concerning  a  venerable  member  who  rejoiced  in  white 
hair,  gold  spectacles  and  abnormal  respectability.  On  one 
occasion,  so  the  legend  ran,  as  he  was  crossing  the  ridge  of  old 
Carlisle  Bridge  he  saw  a  man  just  under  him  sink  for  the 
third  and  last  time  in  the  mingled  mud  and  water  of  the 
Liffey.  Hastily  he  glanced  at  his  watch  as  the  head  of  the 
victim  vanished. 

"  My  poor  fellow,"  he  exclaimed,  with  professional 
sympathy,  "  you  are  unfortunately  too  late  for  the  evening 
paper,  but  I'll  give  you  a  good  par.  to-morrow." 

For  this  other  story  I  can  personally  vouch.  Early  in  my 
career  I  was  dispatched  by  the  "  chief  "  to  describe  a  novel 
and  sensational  performance  at  Hengler's  Circus.  Loo-Loo,  a 
man  dressed  as  a  girl,  was  shot  up  by  a  powerful  spring  to 
grasp  a  trapeze  high  up  in  the  centre  of  the  great  canvas 
dome  of  the  circus.  Rightly  or  wrongly  I  thought  I  de- 
tected a  tremor,  a  certain  suggestion  of  nervousness  in  the 
slim  figure  that  stood  crouching  on  the  small  platform  close 
to  the  ground.  The  spring  was  released,  and  with  a  loud 
swish  the  figure  shot  like  an  arrow  into  the  air.  So  swift 
was  the  flight,  few  could  see  the  wild  grasp  of  the  distended 
fingers  just  miss  the  bar  of  the  trapeze,  or  mark  the  strained 
body  pause  for  a  second  in  vacant  space  before  it  fell. 
It  struck  the  edge  of  the  safety  net  a  hundred  feet  below 
and  was  jerked  out  into  the  box  of  the  orchestra. 

There  was  an  instant  tumult  among  the  audience,  who 
stampeded  from  the  benches  across  the  arena.  While  I  was 
still  dizzy  with  the  horror  of  the  scene,  not  knowing  if  the 
victim  were  alive  or  dead,  a  brother  Pressman  whispered  in 
my  ear  : 


30       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

"  That  will  make  a  good  par.  for  the  Press  Association 
if  we  get  it  off  at  once." 

Many  men  of  great  ability  were  connected  with  the 
Freeman's  Journal  when  I  joined  it  on  the  lowest  rung  of 
the  ladder.  Amongst  them  was  the  reckless  humorist  Dick 
Adams,  afterwards  Judge  Adams,  of  whom  I  have  more  to 
say  later.  Very  little  of  his  humour,  however,  crept  into 
his  articles.  He  was  grand,  solemn,  almost  sanctimonious. 
On  religious  subjects  he  was  said,  in  the  slang  of  the  office, 
"  to  write  with  a  quill  from  the  wing  of  an  archangel." 

I  remember  once  going  home  with  him  from  the  office  in 
the  not  too  small  hours  of  the  morning.  He  had  written 
an  orthodox,  eloquent  article  on  the  Catholic  University 
Question.  Now  in  private  conversation  Dick  would  some- 
times allude  to  the  venerable  Rector  of  the  University, 
Monsignor  Woodlock,  as  Monsignor  Deadlock.  We  had 
almost  reached  home  when  a  horrible  suspicion  smote  him 
that  by  a  slip  of  the  pen  he  had  introduced  this  pet  name 
into  the  article.  Back  we  trudged  a  weary  mile  through 
rain  and  darkness  to  find  the  suspicion  was  well  founded. 
"  Monsignor  Deadlock "  appeared  conspicuously  half  a 
dozen  times  in  the  article.  It  was  set  up  and  stereotyped 
when  we  arrived,  and  had  to  be  chiselled  out  of  the  plate. 

Lefroy  was  another  of  the  Freeman  writers  of  those  days, 
a  bit  of  a  cynic  with  a  clear-cut,  vigorous  style  not  com- 
monly associated  with  newspapers.  He  had  a  morbid 
passion  for  executions,  then  open  to  the  Press,  and  de- 
scribed their  horrors  with  a  gruesome  appreciation  almost 
worthy  of  Poe.  Ultimately  he  married  a  Lord  Mayor's 
daughter  and  retired  from  the  service. 

Guinee,  another  able  Freeman's  writer,  did  his  descriptions 
of  public  functions  at  home.  He  filled  in  the  details  from 
his  imagination,  and  his  imaginary  scenes  were  more  vivid 
than  reality.  He  was  a  most  fecund  and  versatile  writer 
who  contributed  to  many  periodicals,  who  made  a  big 
income  for  a  Pressman,  and  while  he  himself  lived  a  life  of 
Spartan  simplicity  he  banqueted  a  friend  with  embarrassing 
prodigality. 

It  would  be  not  flattery  but  irony  to  describe  John  B. 


THE  REPORTERS'   ROOM  31 

Gallagher,  the  editor  of  the  Freeman's  Journal,  as  a 
literary  man.  I  remember  on  one  occasion  Lefroy  ex- 
pressed his  belief  that  "  Old  G.,"  or  "  Black  Jack,"  as 
he  was  indifferently  called  at  the  office,  had  never  read  a 
book  in  his  life.  I  suggested  that  he  must  have  got  through 
"  Jack  the  Giant  Killer  "  or  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  in  the 
days  of  his  youth,  but  Lefroy  would  make  no  exception. 

It  was  Gallagher  who  revised  the  reporters'  copy  on  the 
way  to  the  printing  office  and  mercilessly  mutilated  the 
manuscript.  Often,  I  remember,  I  wrote  the  first  pages  and 
the  last  large  and  wide  and  the  intermediate  pages  small 
and  close,  in  the  vain  hope  of  evading  his  inexorable  blue 
pencil.  Usually  he  compelled  the  unhappy  reporter  to 
mutilate  his  own  offspring. 

"  How  much  have  you  there  ?  " 

"  About  a  column  and  a  half,  sir." 

"  Cut  it  down  to  a  short  half." 

There  was  no  appeal  from  the  decree. 

Gallagher  had  one  curious  delusion.  He  fancied  that 
inverted  commas  were  a  protection  against  a  libel  action, 
and  stranger  still  an  excuse  for  any  eccentricities  of  style. 
One  evening  I  read  for  him  in  his  dingy  throne-room 
the  customary  trite  newspaper  description  of  some  per- 
formance at  the  theatre  which  I  had  witnessed.  Some- 
one, I  wrote,  was  "  exquisitely  "  amusing. 

"  Old  G."  cocked  his  head  critically  on  one  side.  "  I 
don't  like  that  word  exquisitely,"  he  said. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  I  answered,  "I'll  strike  it  out." 

"  No,  no,  it's  a  good  word  enough,  but  it's  a  little  un- 
usual there.  Tell  you  what,  we'll  quote  it." 

"  Quote  it  from  what  ?  "  I  asked  in  amazement. 

"Oh,  that  does  not  matter,  just  simply  quote  it." 

Next  morning  the  Freeman's  Journal  duly  reported  that 
the  performance  was  "  exquisitely  "  amusing. 

Yet  Gallagher,  with  all  his  eccentricities,  was  shrewd  and 
kindly,  and  admirably  suited  for  his  post.  No  man  could 
more  successfully  gauge  the  current  and  trend  of  public 
opinion  ;  no  man  could  more  successfully  engineer  a  boom, 
commercial  or  political.  He  had  the  keenest  and  most 


32       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

discriminating  scent  for  interesting  news,  and  an  almost 
infallible  instinct  for  detecting  and  rejecting  a  libel. 

For  Gallagher  the  Freeman's  Journal,  the  "  Popular 
Instructor  "  as  it  was  sometimes  nicknamed,  was  a  kind  of 
god  at  whose  altar  he  ministered,  whose  popularity  it  was 
his  duty  to  preserve  unimpaired.  Himself  a  Whig  of  the 
old  school,  he  never  allowed  his  personal  views  to  influence 
the  conduct  of  the  paper. 

When  Parnell  had  established  his  position  in  the  country 
and  the  Freeman  at  last  reluctantly  supported  his  forward 
movement,  an  old  Whig  friend  condoled  with  Gallagher  on 
the  changed  policy  of  the  paper. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Gallagher  aquiesced  dismally,  "  the  country 
is  going  to  the  devil,  but  the  Freeman  is  bound  to  go  with 
the  country." 

One  other  colleague  claims  honourable  mention. 

When  I  first  joined  the  Freeman's  Journal  that  word 
"  colleague  "  would  have  been  incredible  presumption  applied 
to  Theophilus  McWeeney,  the  chief  reporter.  As  well  might 
the  junior  clerk  of  the  Treasury  claim  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  as  a  chum.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  cringe  and 
tremble  before  any  man  as  I  cringed  and  trembled  before 
him  during  my  novitiate.  Yet  he  was  one  of  the  best -hearted 
of  men,  rough  and  tough  exteriorly  as  the  husk  of  a  cocoanut, 
but  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  I  tried  to  introduce 
him- in  manner  as  he  lived  into  my  story  "  White  Magic," 
and  am  glad  to  remember  he  recognized  and  approved  of 
the  portrait.  He  may  be  fairly  described  as  a  "  champion 
reporter."  Of  him  it  was  said  in  Press  circles  that  if  he 
were  thrown  down  a  chimney  when  a  meeting  was  half  over 
he  would  contrive  to  get  a  full  report  of  it  before  it  rose. 
To  literary  style  he  had  no  claim,  he  gave  facts  in  plain, 
bald  narrative.  Curiously  enough  for  a  Pressman  of  many 
years'  standing,  he  loved  rather  to  talk  than  to  write ;  but 
as  a  mere  reporter  he  was  one  of  the  most  efficient  I  ever 
knew,  keen  as  Sherlock  Holmes,  or  shall  I  say  Mr.  Dupin, 
in  ferreting  out  a  secret  piece  of  news,  invaluable  at  a  big 
public  meeting  in  producing  a  cartload  of  copy. 

Yet  it  is  not  as  a  reporter  but  as  a  humorist  that  I  remem- 


THE   REPORTERS'    ROOM  33 

her  him  best.  There  was,  indeed,  never  a  trace  of  humour 
in  his  descriptive  writings,  however  provocative  the  subject. 
No  man  who  wrote  so  poorly  ever  talked  so  well.  It  would 
seem  that  in  him  the  mere  feel  of  the  pen  or  pencil  para- 
lysed the  humour  and  imagination  that  revelled  in  the  living 
word.  His  charm  as  a  story-teller  was  supplemented  by  a 
marvellous  gift  as  a  mimic.  By  a  twist  of  his  face,  a  motion 
of  his  head  he  brought  the  man  mimicked  before  his  audience. 
Mr.  Grossmith  was  the  only  other  man  I  ever  knew  who 
possessed  this  singular  gift  of  suggestion. 

McWeeney  never  smiled  at  his  own  stories,  the  wilder  the 
farce  the  graver  grew  that  hatchet  face  with  its  high  fore- 
head and  its  tuft  of  pointed  beard. 

We  were  thorough  Bohemians  in  those  good  days  that  are 
gone,  irresponsible  as  boys,  "  who  think  there  is  no  more 
behind  than  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day  and  to  be 
boys  eternal." 

Our  daily  life  abounded  in  practical  jokes  and  horse-play, 
but  of  the  good-natured  variety  that  give  delight  and  hurt 
not.  I  have  been  writing  assiduously  when  a  couple  of 
newspapers  have  been  set  on  fire  beside  me,  and  have  with 
difficulty  rescued  my  precious  copy  from  the  flames.  I  have 
been  beguiled  by  a  judicious  conspiracy  of  false  testimony 
to  search  at  midnight  for  some  non-existent  fire  in  a  remote 
quarter  of  the  town.  But  these  things  belong  to  the  time 
when  I  had  been  made  free  of  the  craft,  and  that  was  many 
months  after  my  first  shy  appearance  in  the  reporters' 
room. 

It  was  a  hard  struggle  at  first,  for  "  the  Chief,"  adopting 
the  heroic  method,  flung  me  to  sink  or  swim  into  a  law  court 
or  public  meeting,  where  I  floundered  about  wildly,  all  the 
time  out  of  my  depth.  When  I  had  practised  shorthand  I 
had  been  read  to  by  kindly  friends,  who  waited  for  me  at 
the  end  of  each  sentence.  Now  inconsiderate  speakers 
left  me  whole  paragraphs  behind,  while  my  labouring  pencil 
toiled  after  them  in  vain.  My  notes  were  in  an  inexplicable 
tangle,  illegible  to  my  bewildered  eyes  as  Egyptian  hiero- 
glyphics. Only  very  gradually  I  learned  the  art  of  following 
the  sense  of  the  speaker  while  my  pencil  followed  his 


34       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

words.  I  learned  too  in  those  days  that  slow  reading  is 
faster  than  fast  speaking,  and  that  quiet  conversation  is 
faster  than  either. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  grew  a  proficient  shorthand 
writer.  There  were  those  amongst  my  colleagues  who  could 
easily  keep  pace  with  the  most  rapid  speaker,  as  a  dog 
keeps  pace  with  a  car,  trotting  along  by  the  side  without 
any  apparent  effort,  but  I  had  always  to  call  on  my  memory 
to  fill  up  the  gaps  left  by  my  pencil. 

Two  red-letter  days  stand  out  in  my  confused  recollection 
of  my  protracted  struggle  to  obtain  an  assured  foothold  on 
the  Press — the  day  my  writing  first  took  on  the  dignity  of 
the  type,  and  the  day  that  my  fingers  first  touched  coin  of  my 
own  earning. 


CHAPTER    IV 
WORK  AND    PLAY 

A  life  of  variety — In  the  middle  of  things — Utilizing  a  Lord-Lieutenant — 
Personating  a  Lord-Lieutenant — Boycotting  a  Lord-Lieutenant — 
Intimidating  a  Synod — An  eloquent  assembly — "  The  Colonel's 
corner  " — An  effective  retort — A  sharp  contrast — The  hanging  of  a 
murderer. 

FOR  a  young  fellow  sound  in  mind  and  limb,  with  a  fair 
average  intellect,  there  is  no  life  in  the  world  to  rival 
a  reporter's.  The  work  is  hard, — mind  and  muscle  are  often 
strained  to  the  uttermost,  but  there  is  no  other  life  that 
offers  youth  so  much  variety  and  excitement.  The  reporter 
lives  in  the  midst  of  events,  he  sees  and  hears  what  other 
folks  are  anxious  to  read  about,  he  never  knows  from  day 
to  day  where  he  shall  have  to  go  or  what  he  shall  behold  and 
record.  In  the  routine  of  his  day's  work  he  meets  the  great 
men  of  his  time,  he  is  eye  and  ear-witness  to  the  most 
exciting  events,  the  side-shows  of  life  are  all  open  to  him, 
theatres  and  social  gatherings  welcome  him.  With  all 
deference  to  Hamlet,  reporters,  and  not  the  actors,  are  in 
truth  "  the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  of  the  time."  The 
most  self-contained  celebrities  realize  that  "  after  death 
you  had  better  have  a  bad  epitaph  than  a  bad  report  while 
you  live." 

The  reporter  has  seldom  to  complain  of  incivility,  and  he 
can  always  retaliate  successfully.  The  principal  actors  in 
great  events  are  only  too  anxious  to  facilitate  the  work  of 
publicity.  A  colleague  of  mine,  Mr.  J.  B.  Hall,  on  the 
Freeman's  Journal  used  to  tell  the  following  story,  which 
I  give  as  nearly  as  possible  in  his  own  words : — 

"  When  Lord  Wodehouse  was  appointed  Lord-Lieutenant, 
there  was  as  usual  a  natural  desire  on  the  part  of  the  news- 
papers to  obtain  some  information  about  the  '  new  man,' 

35 


36       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

and  the  procedure  of  installation  at  the  Castle,  and  I  was 
requested  to  pick  up  all  I  could  about  the  Viceregal  function. 

"  I  discovered  that  Lord  Wodehouse  and  his  suite  were  to 
depart  that  very  evening  from  Kingstown  to  Holyhead, 
and  as  I  was  then  living  at  Sandycove,  I  went  down  to  the 
mailboat,  the  Old  Connaught,  and  addressing  my  friend, 
the  evergreen  Captain  Thomas,  asked  him  had  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant,  his  secretary  and  party  arrived  ? 

"  Pointing  to  a  little  group  of  gentlemen,  he  said,  '  They 
are  over  yonder  at  the  cabin,  starboard  side;  that's  the 
secretary  with  the  white  flower  in  his  coat/ 

"  So  I  strolled  towards  the  group,  the  members  of  which 
were  moving  to  and  fro,  and  politely  accosting  the  gentle- 
man with  the  flower,  said  to  him,  '  You,  I  believe,  are  one 
of  the  Viceregal  party  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,'  he  replied,  '  are  you  coming  across  ?  ' 

"  I  said  no,  that  I  was  a  newspaper  reporter,  mentioned 
the  name  of  my  paper,  and  added  that  I  was  anxious  to 
obtain  some  particulars  of  '  the  swearing  in  of  the  new  man 
at  the  Castle  that  afternoon.' 

" '  My  dear  fellow/  he  answered  pleasantly,  '  I  am 
awfully  glad  I  met  you,  I  shall  be  only  too  delighted  to 
help  ;  let  us  sit  down/ 

"Then  and  there  he  dictated  to  me  a  really  interesting 
account  of  the  inauguration,  with  many  graphic  and  un- 
conventional touches.  I  asked  him  a  few  supplemental 
questions  as  to  what  he  thought  were  the  general  views  of 
the  '  new  Lord-Lieutenant,'  his  first  experiences  of  Ireland, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  in  reply  he  gave  me  a  fund  of 
interesting  information. 

"  When  he  had  finished,  I  said, '  Well,  I  am  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  you,  thank  you  very  much.  You,  I  presume, 
are  his  Excellency's  secretary  ?  ' 

"  '  No,  my  boy/  said  he,  with  a  broad  smile,  '  I  happen 
to  be  the  "  new  man  "  himself,  very  much  at  your  service  ; 
whenever  you  want  any  information  it  is  in  my  power  to 
give,  you  will  always  be  welcome/ 

"  For  a  moment  I  was  dumbfounded,  but  the  contents  of 
my  notebook  consoled  me  for  my  mistake." 


WORK  AND   PLAY  37 

The  same  colleague  told  how  on  another  occasion  the 
reporters  got  becalmed  in  a  little  yacht  near  Glengariff, 
and  so  missed  the  Viceroy's  (Lord  Haughton's)  reply  to 
an  important  address.  They  had  secured  a  copy  of  the 
address  before  they  sailed  and,  putting  their  heads  together, 
they  fabricated  a  column  of  eloquent  but  vague  reply, 
which  they  wired  to  the  Dublin  papers  the  moment  they 
touched  land  and  which  was  accepted  without  question 
as  the  speech  of  his  Excellency. 

Only  twice  in  my  recollection  was  a  slight  offered  to  Press- 
men, and  on  both  occasions  the  slight  was  promptly  and 
amply  revenged. 

The  Royal  Agricultural  Society  once  upon  a  time  held 
its  show  in  Londonderry.  The  "  City  of  Apprentice  Boys  " 
was  in  a  tremor  of  bustle  and  excitement.  The  then  Lord- 
Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  the  Duke  of  Abercorn,  went  down  to 
Deny  for  the  show.  It  chanced  that  a  special  political 
significance  attended  his  presence,  and  there  were  a  host  of 
reporters  on  the  scene,  including  Press  representatives  from 
all  the  principal  newspapers  of  Great  Britain. 

The  Mayor,  who  had  fairly  lost  his  head  at  this  sudden 
inflation  of  his  importance,  contrived  to  insult  the  whole 
body  of  reporters  at  the  first  public  function  they  attended. 
They  determined  in  retaliation  to  boycott  the  Mayor,  the 
Lord-Lieutenant  and  the  show. 

The  word  Boycott  was  not  known  then,  but  the  thing  was. 
We  reporters,  in  a  body,  politely  declined  all  invitations  to 
deputations,  meetings  or  banquets,  so  the  congratulatory 
address  of  the  Corporation  and  the  conciliatory  response  of 
his  Excellency  were  lost  to  a  curious  public. 

Then  the  Viceregal  influence  was  brought  to  bear  on  the 
newspaper  proprietors,  but  they  were  loyal  to  their  staffs 
and  declined  to  interfere.  The  orators,  refused  the  publicity 
of  print,  spoke  their  speeches  to  each  other,  and  "  to  party 
gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind,"  while  we  reporters 
took  our  pleasure  at  our  inn.  Amongst  those  orators  who 
had  come  to  Derry  with  their  speeches  in  their  heads,  or 
in  their  pockets,  there  was  bitter  discontent  at  the  sup- 
pression, and  the  Mayor,  who  was  responsible,  was  the 


38       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN     IRISH   JUDGE 

target  of  their  reproaches.  His  slight  to  the  Press,  moreover, 
cost  him  the  knighthood  which  he  had  confidently  antici- 
pated. 

Some  time  later  I  participated  in  a  similar  interlude  of 
a  less  tragical  character.  A  very  large  number  of  reporters, 
amongst  them  myself,  were  brought  daily  to  the  Synod 
Hall  of  Christ's  Church  in  the  early  days  of  the  excited 
debates  on  the  revision  of  the  Common  Prayer  Book,  which 
succeeded  Irish  Church  Disestablishment. 

Time  and  again  we  vainly  requested  the  authorities  to 
provide  a  screen  between  our  gallery  and  the  antechamber 
where  our  notes  were  transcribed.  So  great  was  the  draught 
from  one  room  to  the  other  that  occasionally  the  pages  of 
our  "  copy  "  were  lifted  by  the  wind  and  scattered  broad- 
cast through  the  hall. 

Day  after  day  promises  were  given  and  broken.  At  last 
we  took  the  matter  into  our  hands,  and  quietly  retired  in  a 
body  from  the  gallery  to  the  chamber  behind  it.  For  a  few 
moments  it  appeared  our  disappearance  was  unnoticed. 
An  eloquent  military  orator,  one  of  the  "  party  of  the 
Colonel's,"  as  it  was  called,  was  at  the  moment  delivering 
an  impassioned  denunciation  of  a  comma  in  the  Athanasian 
Creed.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence.  He  had  discovered  the  void  in  the  reporters' 
gallery. 

There  was  a  confused  buzz  of  surprise  and  consternation  ; 
then  blank  silence. 

A  few  moments  afterwards  an  influential  deputation,  a 
bishop,  I  fancy,  I  am  almost  certain  a  dean  and  a  canon, 
waited  on  us  and  requested  us  to  return  to  our  place,  promis- 
ing everything.  But  we  had  lost  faith  in  ecclesiastical 
protestations.  We  felt  ourselves  masters  of  the  situation, 
and  we  refused  to  budge  an  inch  until  the  promises  were 
redeemed.  The  Synodical  deliberations  were  interrupted 
for  an  hour  or  more  till  a  curtain  had  been  adjusted  at  the 
back  of  the  reporters'  gallery,  so  the  triumph  of  the  Press 
militant  over  the  Church  dilatory  was  complete. 

While  I  am  on  the  subject  I  say  that  the  most  exciting, 
excitable  and  eloquent  assembly  I  ever  attended  was  the 


WORK   AND   PLAY  39 

same  Protestant  Synod.  The  Protestant  newspapers  re- 
ported the  proceedings  in  full,  their  reporters  were  hard- 
worked,  but  the  editorial  limit  for  the  Freeman  was  a  column 
to  a  column  and  a  half,  so  I  had  ample  leisure  for  the  dis- 
criminating enjoyment  of  the  debate.  The  topics  to  be 
discussed  would  not  seem  provocative  of  enthusiasm,  but 
I  heard  hours  of  genuine  eloquence  expended  over  a  debate 
on  infant  baptism,  or  the  damnatory  clauses  of  the  Atha- 
nasian  Creed. 

This  thoroughgoing  Creed  was  indeed  the  chief  bone  of 
contention  at  the  Synod,  fought  over  and  pulled  to  pieces 
by  the  High  Church  and  Low  Church,  by  the  bishops  and 
laity,  as  fiercely  as  the  body  of  Patroclus  by  the  contending 
Trojans  and  Greeks.  All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  were 
included  in  the  Synod.  Dukes,  earls,  archbishops  and 
bishops  were  confronted  by  a  majority  of  Low  Church  laity, 
who  were  determined  on  broadening  the  Church  and  ex- 
cluding the  slightest  savour  of  "  Popery  "  from  its  ritual. 
There  was  a  curiously  large  representation  of  the  military 
element,  indeed,  one  section,  known  as  the  "  Colonel's 
Corner,"  waged  unremitting  war  upon  what  they  regarded 
as  the  popish  tendencies  of  their  episcopacy.  It  was  here 
the  Athanasian  Creed  found  its  fiercest  opponents,  and  here 
the  irreverent  riddle  was  hatched  : 

"  Why  is  the  Athanasian  Creed  like  a  tiger  ?  " 

"  Because  of  its  damnation  claws." 

There  were  many  distinguished  soldiers  in  the  "  Colonel's 
Corner,"  and  more  than  one  of  them  was  decorated  with  the 
Victoria  Cross.  Amongst  them  was  one  fine-looking  man, 
Col.  Elliot  or  Folliot,  I  forget  which,  who  had  lost  an  arm 
and  got  the  Cross  as  compensation,  who  had  a  special  interest 
for  me.  He  always  spoke  briefly  and  very  gently,  and  as 
the  only  way  in  my  power  of  expressing  my  admiration, 
I  always  reported  him  verbatim.  I  have  often  wondered 
since  what  he  thought  of  finding  himself  fully  reported  in 
the  National  Catholic  newspaper,  where  archbishops  and 
dukes  were  dismissed  with  a  line. 

By  general  consent,  the  most  powerful  debaters  on  the 
Synod  were  the  late  Trinity  College  Provost,  Jellett,  and  the 


40       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

late  Lord  Justice  FitzGibbon.  The  most  eloquent  orator 
and  chief  champion  of  the  Athanasian  Creed  was  Dr. 
Alexander,  Bishop  of  Deny,  afterwards  Primate,  a  great 
poet  as  well  as  a  great  preacher,  who  retired  at  the  age  of 
ninety,  or  thereabouts.  They  had  a  curious  method  of  voting 
by  orders  which  I  could  never  quite  understand,  and  which 
led  to  continual  deadlock.  As  the  result  of  a  compromise, 
it  was  ordained,  if  I  understand  rightly,  that  the  Athanasian 
Creed  should  stand  in  the  end  of  the  Prayer  Book,  but  no 
one  was  to  be  obliged  to  read  it,  or  presumably  to  believe  it 
unless  he  so  chose.  However  strange  it  might  seem  that 
the  majority  should  settle  by  vote  the  faith  of  the  minority, 
there  was  no  denying  the  vigour  and  eloquence  of  the 
debates.  One  illustration  alone  I  find,  stranded  in  my 
memory,  though  it  is  trivial  in  comparison  with  hundreds 
that  have  escaped  : — 

The  Low  Church  party  had  fallen  out  among  themselves, 
and  were  engaged  in  acrimonious  controversy  when  Arch- 
bishop Plunkett  interposed  to  compare  himself  and  his 
episcopal  colleagues  to  Caesar,  who,  "  standing  on  a  height 
above  the  field  of  conflict,  viewed  the  barbarians  destroying 
each  other." 

Lord  James  Butler,  leader  of  the  Low  Church  party, 
instantly  replied  : 

"  His  Grace,"  he  said,  "  perched  on  an  imaginary  eminence 
above  the  laity  of  his  Church,  rejoices  in  their  mutual 
destruction,  but  this,  at  least,  we  can  assure  his  Grace,  that 
though  in  his  estimation  we  are  no  better  than  barbarians, 
we  have  no  intention  of  allowing  ourselves  to  be  '  butchered 
to  make  a  Roman  holiday.' ' 

The  reporter  is  the  slave  of  "  the  Chief's  "  notebook  as  the 
genie  was  the  slave  of  Aladdin's  wonderful  lamp,  and  the 
tasks  set  him  are  as  various  and  as  incongruous.  When  I 
arrived  in  the  office  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  blank 
ignorance  of  the  day's  work  before  me,  I  was  liable  to  be 
marked  either  for  a  flower-show  in  Merrion  Square,  a  sen- 
sational law  case  in  the  Four  Courts,  a  philanthropic 
meeting,  or  the  investigation  of  a  murder.  Often  I  have  been 
dispatched  at  half  an  hour's  notice  to  a  political  demon- 


WORK  AND  PLAY  41 

stration  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  country,  transcribed 
my  notes  on  the  return  journey  by  the  flickering  light  of  a 
smoky  oil-lamp  in  the  guard's  van  of  a  cattle  train,  and 
popped  the  copy  into  the  printer  the  moment  I  arrived  in 
Dublin.  With  sharp  and  sudden  change  and  contrast 
my  duties  shifted  from  grave  to  gay,  from  serious  to  serene. 

"  I  want  you,  Bodkin,  to  do  me  the  presentation  to  the 
Lord  Mayor  to-day,"  said  "  the  Chief,"  scribbling  in  his 
marking-book ;  "  afterwards  you  might  pick  up  a  par.  of  the 
man  who  drowned  himself  in  the  canal." 

The  presentation  was  a  splendid  performance,  attended 
by  the  notabilities  of  Dublin,  followed  by  a  luxurious 
luncheon.  As  luck  happened,  I  had  on  that  occasion  a  seat 
beside  the  late  Professor  Haughton,  one  of  the  most  fas- 
cinating of  men.  Good  cheer,  pleasant  talk  and  bright 
speeches  sent  the  minutes  flying  past  at  a  great  rate. 
Suddenly  I  remembered  my  second  appointment,  looked  at 
my  watch,  found  that  a  fast  car  would  just  get  me  in  time 
to  the  morgue. 

With  the  bright  scene  still  before  my  eyes,  the  gay  talk 
still  in  my  ears,  the  exhilarating  fumes  of  the  champagne 
still  in  my  brain,  I  entered  the  cold,  foul-smelling  court  that 
is  dedicated  to  the  dead  who  have  come  to  an  untimely  end. 

A  hastily  selected  jury  sat  stolid  in  their  box  until  they 
were  invited  to  view  the  dead  body,  when  they  arose  with 
strange  alacrity,  as  if  they  found  some  morose  delectation  in 
that  grim  spectacle.  The  corpse  of  a  man  in  his  prime  lay 
stretched  on  a  rude  bench  in  the  dead-room.  He  was  a  big 
man  and  comely,  in  spite  of  the  disfigurement  of  death. 
The  day  before  he  had  gone  out  with  a  friend,  and  returning 
at  night-time  had  dropped  into  the  canal.  His  life  ended 
as  suddenly  as  a  quenched  candle.  In  the  dim,  damp  court 
his  wretched  wife  sat,  rocking  herself  slowly  to  and  fro  in 
the  stupor  of  intolerable  grief.  By  her  side  their  children 
crouched.  The  inquest  began. 

The  widow  of  a  day  was  called  and  gave  her  evidence  in 
a  dull  monotone,  which  a  careless  ear  might  have  miscon- 
strued as  unconcern  rather  than  the  numbness  of  a  sudden 
and  crushing  grief.  The  police-sergeant  told  of  the  finding 


42       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

of  the  body  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  scratching  pen  of 
the  coroner,  and  the  jury  briefly  summarized  the  tragedy 
in  their  verdict :  "  Found  drowned." 

I  returned  to  the  office  with  the  details  of  those  con- 
trasting scenes  cheek  by  jowl  in  my  notebook,  and  I  trans- 
cribed them  one  after  the  other  for  the  paper.  The  reporter 
has  no  need  for  sermons  on  the  vanity  of  life. 

I  had  a  still  more  dismal  experience  on  the  sole  occasion  I 
witnessed  an  execution. 

Even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  I  cannot  recall  that  grim  scene  without  some- 
thing of  the  sickening  sensation  of  horror  which  it  first 
inspired. 

It  was  a  very  sordid  and  brutal  murder,  with  no  redeeming 
touch  of  romance  to  awaken  the  sympathy  of  the  most 
gushing  sentimentalist.  A  tramp  murdered  an  old  man  for 
the  sake  of  a  few  pounds  and  was  caught  red-handed.  That 
was  the  whole  story,  as  far  as  I  knew  it,  when  I  was 
dispatched  to  Sligo  to  describe  the  execution. 

Let  me  confess,  I  was  in  no  way  unpleasantly  affected  by 
the  mission ;  it  was  all  in  the  day's  work.  Sligo,  I  thought, 
was  a  pleasant  town  with  pleasant  people,  and  the  Imperial 
Hotel  with  the  river  running  in  front  of  it  was  a  pleasant 
place  to  put  up  at.  On  the  way  down  I  was  absorbed  in  a 
novel,  and  murder  and  execution  lay  more  than  half  for- 
gotten in  the  back  of  my  head. 

By  the  time  I  got  to  my  hotel,  however,  the  remembrance 
of  the  gruesome  duty  of  the  morrow  had  slowly  worked 
itself  to  the  surface  of  my  thoughts,  but  it  was  not  till  I 
was  alone  in  my  bedroom  that  the  horror  of  the  business 
fairly  took  hold  of  me. 

Suddenly  I  realized  that  for  the  wretched  murderer 
this  was  the  last  night  on  earth,  and  he  knew  it.  Vivid  and 
more  vivid  the  picture  grew  of  the  poor  wretch  awake 
through  the  long  night,  looking  death  straight  in  the  eyes. 
Of  him  it  might  be  most  truly  said  that  in  the  midst  of  life 
he  was  in  death,  but  it  was  man,  not  God,  that  doomed 
him.  Sickness  eases  the  passage  to  the  grave ;  the  vigorous 
vitality  of  a  man  in  rude  health  protests  against  the 


WORK  AND   PLAY  43 

outrage  of  extinction.  Gradually  keen  sympathy  grew  to 
delirium.  I  seemed  to  be  present  in  the  condemned  cell, 
to  share  the  ineffectual  agony  of  the  wretch  whose  last  few 
hours  on  earth  were  slipping  away  so  fast. 

Then,  as  now,  my  reason  approved  of  capital  punishment 
for  capital  crime  as  the  one  deterrent  by  which  would-be 
murderers  are  in  the  least  likely  to  be  restrained.  But  on 
that  night  my  imagination  completely  captivated  my 
reason,  the  terror  of  the  condemned  murderer  grew  so  real 
to  me  that  I  would  have  given  my  right  hand  to  save  that 
sordid  scoundrel  from  the  doom  he  so  richly  deserved. 

When  at  last  I  slept  I  was  tormented  by  horrible  dreams. 
Twice  I  awoke  in  a  cold  sweat  with  the  rope  round  my  neck 
and  my  foot  on  the  drop.  With  the  first  glimpse  of  the  grey 
dawn,  remembrance  came  back  to  me  clear  and  cruel, 
the  thought  that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  about  to 
see  a  man  die. 

The  execution  was  fixed  for  an  early  hour.  The  day 
dawned  bright  and  fair,  a  lovely  morning  in  early  summer, 
and  the  cool,  fresh  air  of  the  early  morning  was  stimulating 
as  wine.  The  scaffold  on  which  I  stood  with  some  of  my 
colleagues  looked  out  on  a  wide,  beautiful  land,  of  hill  and 
lake,  radiant  in  the  slant  rays  of  the  newly  risen  sun. 

The  beauty  of  the  day  enhanced  the  horror  of  the  deed. 
Insistent  as  the  beating  of  my  pulse,  the  thought  kept 
hammering  at  my  heart  that  in  a  little  time  a  man  like 
myself,  loving  life  as  I  loved  it,  must  pass  out  of  the  world 
before  my  eyes.  I  was  shocked  at  the  callousness  of  my 
colleagues,  who  chatted  and  laughed  together  as  if  no 
tragedy  were  impending. 

A  bell  began  to  toll :  then  from  afar  off,  very  faint  at 
first,  but  growing  more  distinct  as  it  approached,  was  heard 
the  monotonous  murmur  of  prayer.  In  slow  procession 
there  came  upon  the  platform  the  condemned  man  and  the 
chaplain  walking  side  by  side,  the  sheriff  and  the  governor 
of  the  jail  followed  close  behind,  and  at  a  greater  distance 
a  shy  and  shamefaced  hangman  brought  up  the  rear.  My 
eyes  went  at  once  with  horrible  fascination  to  the  face  of 
the  man  about  to  die.  He  was  pale  all  over,  ghastly  pale, 


44       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

cheeks,  lips  and  forehead  a  uniform  colour,  not  white,  but 
ashen-grey  and  shiny  with  moisture  when  the  light  touched 
it.  From  the  grey  lips  issued  a  hollow  murmur  of  prayer. 
He  seemed  to  move  and  speak  mechanically  as  if  stupefied 
by  fear.  Slowly  they  went  past,  and  the  doomed  man, 
still  moving  like  one  in  a  dream,  was  led  to  the  drop,  three 
paces  from  where  I  stood.  Then  for  the  first  time  he  seemed 
to  wake  to  consciousness  and,  like  an  animal  shying  at 
danger,  refused  to  step  upon  the  drop.  The  hangman 
coaxed  and  pushed  him  on  as  one  would  coax  a  refractory 
child.  For  a  moment  the  trembling  figure  stood  black 
outlined  against  the  glow  of  the  morning,  while  the  hangman 
busied  himself  with  the  nice  adjustment  of  the  rope,  and 
drew  over  the  stooped  head  the  cap  that  shut  out  for  ever  the 
light  of  heaven  and  the  beauty  of  earth. 

At  that  moment  my  heart  utterly  failed  me.  With  an 
overwhelming  sensation  that  I  myself  was  about  to  die,  I 
staggered  down  the  rickety  ladder  and  leant  against  one 
of  the  posts  of  the  scaffold  for  support.  There  was  a  sudden 
jerk,  a  shiver  ran  through  the  wood  and  for  a  single  instant, 
clear  against  the  light,  I  saw  a  ghastly  figure  that  struggled 
in  impotent  agony,  and  then  swung  gently  to  and  fro  a 
dead  thing  at  the  end  of  the  straight,  taut  rope. 

I  remember  no  more.  When  I  recovered  consciousness  I 
was  lying  on  the  floor  of  the  governor's  room,  to  which  I 
had  been  carried,  and,  as  sight  and  hearing  slowly  returned, 
I  saw  a  number  of  men  around  me  and  heard  their  half- 
contemptuous  comment  on  my  "  softness." 

It  was  a  paralysing  experience,  but  I  was  above  all  things 
a  reporter,  and  a  reporter  is  not  allowed  to  feel.  Within  two 
hours  "  a  full,  true  and  particular  account  "  of  the  execution 
was  on  the  wire  to  my  paper. 


CHAPTER   V 
LONGBOW  AND   BULL 

Two  notable  colleagues — Splendide  mendax — A  few  illustrations — 
Bamboozling  Parnell — "A  boil  that  burst  " — A  breeder  of  prize  bulls — 
"  So  far  forgot  himself  " — "  One  of  three  others  " — An  insult  and  an 
apology. 

TIES  have  an  interest  all  their  own.  Of  course,  I  don't 
1  ^  mean  wicked  lies,  which  are  sins,  but  the  gasconade 
of  narrative,  the  boasting  of  men  whose  imagination  runs 
away  with  them,  and  who  are  as  a  rule  much  pleasanter 
fellows  to  listen  to  than  the  dull  prosers  who  stick  closely  to 
fact  and  never  spare  you  the  infliction  of  a  name  or  date. 
I  read  an  article  some  time  ago  on  lies  and  the  way  to  cure 
them.  The  way  to  cure  them  was  by  telling  bigger  lies  to 
the  liar  until  he  retired  abashed.  In  this  article,  which  was 
published  during  the  bicycle  boom,  bicycle  lies  were  princi- 
pally treated  of.  Now  golf  lies  are  all  the  fashion,  and  have 
given  rise  to  the  epigram  that  golfers  on  the  links  are 
"  like  as  they  lie,"  and  off  the  links  "  lie  as  they  like." 

There  is  a  certain  sympathy  with  the  liar  of  the  type  I 
have  described.  Everyone  knows  the  story  of  the  man  in 
the  train  who  passed  his  card  to  the  magnificent  romancer, 
who  had  enthralled  and  astounded  the  company.  On  the 
card  was  the  inscription  : 

"  Heartiest  congratulations  ;  I  am  a  bit  of  a  liar  myself." 

Fishermen  also  are  renowned  for  their  splendid  mendacity. 

"  How  comes  it,"  asked  an  inexperienced  novice,  "  that 
the  fish  in  the  river  a  mile  off  are  so  much  better  than  the 
fish  in  this  river  ?  " 

His  guide  enlightened  him :  "  Faix,  your  honour,  it  is  not 
that  there  are  bigger  fish  in  the  river,  but  there  are  bigger 
liars  on  the  banks." 

But  all  the  liars  to  whom  I  have  heretofore  alluded  were 

45 


46       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

specialists,  restricted  each  to  a  single  department  of  the 
science.  It  was  my  good  fortune  in  my  Press  experience  to 
know  a  brilliant,  universal  liar  whose  imagination  knew  no 
bounds.  He  was  ready  to  discourse  on  all  subjects  with  the 
same  fluent  mendacity.  An  hour's  talk  with  him  was  a 
liberal  education.  Let  me  say  at  once  he  was  in  every  way 
a  delightful  companion.  Kind-hearted,  genial  and  in  all 
relations  between  man  and  man  the  soul  of  honour.  But 
in  the  matter  of  narrative,  above  all  personal  narrative, 
Baron  Munchausen  was  prosaic  by  comparison.  Wild 
horses  won't  drag  from  me  the  faintest  indication  of  his 
name  or  identity  beyond  the  statement  that  many  years  ago 
he  was  a  well-known  and  popular  figure  in  Dublin. 

As  I  said,  he  was  a  general  practitioner  in  romance,  but 
it  was  in  the  romance  of  war  he  specially  excelled.  I 
remember  on  one  occasion  happening  to  be  with  him  at 
Rigby's  famous  gun-shop.  He  picked  up  a  revolver  and 
examined  it  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur. 

"  This  is  foreign  make  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Rigby,  "  it  is  one  of  our  own." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  our  friend,  "  I  should  have  known  that 
at  once.  In  fact,  I  bought  a  pair  of  them  during  the  Turko- 
Russian  war.  One  of  them  I  kept  for  myself,  the  other  I 
gave  to  my  friend,  Osman  Pasha.  I  remember  he  was  struck 
down  on  the  field  and  dropped  the  revolver.  I  bestrode 
his  body,  picked  up  his  weapon  and  killed  the  twelve 
Russians  who  attacked  him  with  twelve  shots  from  the  two 
revolvers;  a  first-class  weapon.  I  congratulate  you,  Mr. 
Rigby.  Osman  was  very  much  obliged,  and  gave  me  a 
present  of  a  cigar-case  as  a  memento  of  the  little  incident." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  have  it  about  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  and  drew  out  a  little  shilling 
plaited  straw  cigar-case,  with  a  piece  of  soiled  paper  pasted 
on  it.  Inscribed  on  the  paper  in  his  own  handwriting  were 

the  words,  "  From  Osman  Pasha  to as  a  memento  of 

gratitude  for  saving  his  life." 

"  But,"  I  ventured  to  object,  "  that  is  in  English,  and  I 
was  under  the  impression  that  Osman  Pasha  was  a  Turk." 

"  Some  people's  ignorance  is  astounding,"  he  said.    "  Of 


LONGBOW  AND   BULL  47 

course  Osman  Pasha  was  a  Turk,  but  I  thought  every  one 
knew  he  was  educated  at  Stonyhurst." 

After  that  I  never  ventured  to  cross-examine  my  friend. 

On  another  occasion  I  happened  to  notice  suspended 
crossways  in  his  room  an  old  "  property  "  sword  from  some 
theatre,  with  a  huge  notch  on  the  blade. 

"  Do  you  see  that  notch  ?  "  he  asked ;  a  blind  man  might 
have  seen  it.  "  There  is  a  curious  little  incident  connected 
with  that.  As  I  was  riding  at  the  head  of  my  regiment  of 
light  cavalry,  we  were  attacked  by  a  superior  force  of 
Russian  Cossacks.  Their  leader,  a  man  of  gigantic  size, 
at  least  seven  feet  high,  struck  at  me  with  that  sword.  I 
warded  off  the  blow  with  my  revolver  barrel,  and  notched 
the  blade,  as  you  see ;  then  I  shot  him  through  the  head.  A 
year  afterwards  I  was  passing  over  the  battlefield  and 
found  the  skeleton  still  grasping  the  sword.  I  picked  it  up 
as  a  memento  of  that  little  incident." 

A  mutual  friend,  one  of  the  kindliest  and  gentlest  of  men, 
accidentally  stumbled  against  our  hero  and  made  instant 
apology. 

"  You  were  right  to  apologize.  A  regrettable  accident 
once  occurred  by  the  refusal  of  a  man  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances to  apologize.  I  was  walking  on  the  Rialto  at 
Venice  when  a  man  stumbled  against  me.  With  the  utmost 
courtesy  I  requested  him  to  be  more  careful.  On  the  second 
turning  he  again  stumbled  against  me.  I  cautioned  him 
to  be  more  careful,  and  warned  that  the  consequence  might 
be  unpleasant.  He  laughed  at  my  warning  and  stumbled 
against  me,  deliberately,  a  third  time.  I  drew  the  blade 
from  my  sword-cane  and  cut  off  his  left  leg." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  astounded  gentleman,  to  whom 
the  narrative  was  addressed,  "  I  think  that  was  most 
uncalled  for." 

Perhaps  the  most  astounding  illustration  of  his  prolific 
imagination  is  one  that  has  already  appeared  in  print, 
and  created  a  startling  sensation  at  the  time.  It  was  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Land  League  in  Ireland.  Chancing  to 
meet  Mr.  Parnell  at  a  late  hour  of  the  night  in  Dublin,  our 
friend  drew  him  mysteriously  apart,  told  him  he  had  been 


48       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

dining  that  night  in  the  Castle  and  had  heard  the  Attorney- 
General,  who  was  slightly  "  overtaken  with  drink,"  declare 
that  the  warrant  was  out  for  Mr.  Parnell's  arrest. 

The  story  was  told  with  such  precision  that  Mr.  Parnell 
accepted  it  as  a  fact.  "  I  should  be  glad,"  he  said,  "  to 
get  out  to  Avondale  to  settle  some  papers  before  my  arrest." 

"  I  will  be  able,"  replied  the  other,  "  to  procure  a  coach 
and  four  within  an  hour's  time." 

"  To  whom  am  I  indebted  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Parnell. 

"  My  name  is  Finnegan,"  was  the  reply.  His  name  was 
no  more  Finnegan  than  Nebuchadnezzar. 

"  Before  starting,"  Mr.  Parnell  suggested,  "  I  must  call 
at  the  Freeman's  Journal  office  to  see  the  editor  for  a 
moment."  It  chanced  our  hero  at  the  time  was,  like  my- 
self, a  member  of  the  literary  staff  of  the  Freeman's  Journal, 
but  he  made  no  objection  to  the  suggestion,  and  accom- 
panied Parnell  to  the  sanctum  of  the  editor,  to  whom  he 
was  introduced  as  "  Mr.  Finnegan." 

The  editor  was  naturally  amazed  at  the  sudden  change 
of  name  on  the  part  of  his  subordinate.  "  Mr.  Finnegan," 
quite  unabashed,  confessed  that  his  name  was  not  Finnegan, 
but  maintained  the  rest  of  his  story  was  true. 

"  When  I  heard  the  news,"  he  added,  "  I  went  out  to 
Dollymount,  where  I  had  a  hundred  men  thoroughly  drilled 
and  armed  with  Winchester  rifles.  I  gave  them  the  hard 
word  to  come  in  at  once  in  case  a  rescue  should  be  required. 
Passing  Ballybrough  Bridge,  I  came  on  two  constables 
who  called  on  me  to  stop.  I  refused.  One  of  them  fired, 
and  the  bullet  grazed  my  side.  I  turned  in  my  saddle  and 
shot  the  fellow  dead  with  my  revolver." 

In  confirmation  of  his  story  he  undressed  himself  and 
exhibited  a  red  mark  on  his  left  side  which,  to  the  uninitiated, 
might  seem  the  graze  of  a  bullet.  But  the  old  pensioner, 
who  was  the  night  porter  of  the  establishment,  was  called 
in  as  an  expert  to  inspect  the  wound,  and  his  verdict  dis- 
credited the  entire  story. 

"  Bullet  wound  ?  "  said  he.  "  Bullet  wound,  indeed  ! 
it  is  a  boil  that  burst." 

Mr.  Parnell  did  not  return  to  his  residence  in  a  coach 


LONGBOW  AND   BULL  49 

and  four  that  night,  and  next  day  the  story  was  published 
in  the  evening  edition  of  the  paper,  in  fuller  detail  than 
I  have  given  it  here,  but  with  names  attached,  and  some 
satirical  comment  on  the  imaginative  powers  of  "  the  new 
Munchausen." 

In  the  afternoon  I  encountered  my  friend  in  a  very 
bellicose  humour.  "  I  have  been  puzzling  myself  all  day," 
he  told  me,  "  since  I  read  the  libel  in  the  newspaper,  as  to 
what  course  I  should  adopt,  and  I  have  not  yet  made  up 
my  mind  whether  I  should  laugh  at  the  whole  proceeding 
as  an  amusing  hoax,  or  call  out  Dwyer  Grey  (the  proprietor 
of  the  paper)  for  doubting  my  word." 

It  is  right  to  add  that  his  career  ended  in  real  adventures 
more  exciting  and  astounding  than  the  wildest  dreams  of 
his  vivid  imagination,  adventures  in  which  he  displayed 
the  most  superb  coolness  and  courage,  and  died  the  death 
of  a  hero. 

As  a  contrast  to  him  I  have  in  mind  a  kindly,  good- 
natured,  harum-scarum  colleague,  the  best -hearted  of  fellows 
and  the  best-natured,  who  was  curiously  unfitted  for  the 
profession  he  selected.  His  characteristic  blunders  are  still 
the  subject  of  good-natured  mirth  amongst  the  reporters  of 
Dublin.  He  could  hardly  manage  a  paragraph  without  a 
bull  in  the  middle  of  it. 

Samples  only,  and  those,  I  fear,  are  not  the  best,  dwell  in 
my  memory.  An  archbishop  was  sick,  and  our  friend  was 
dispatched  from  the  office  to  inquire  as  to  his  condition. 
Next  day  the  paragraph  appeared  : 

"  Though  still  attended  by  Dr.  A.  and  Dr.  B.,  the  Arch- 
bishop continues  to  improve." 

The  doctors  were  two  of  the  most  prominent  in  Dublin. 

On  another  occasion  he  declared  "  a  wreck  was  thrown 
up  on  the  coast  by  a  receding  wave." 

A  member  of  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary  murdered  his 
sergeant.  The  tragedy  was  thus  described  by  our  friend  : 

"  Constable  X.  was  a  steady  and  well-conducted  young 
man,  who  bore  a  high  character  in  the  force,  but  on  Saturday 
night  he  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  deliberately  shoot  his 
superior  officer." 


50       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Perhaps  the  gem  of  the  collection  was  his  description  of 
a  boating  accident.  "  The  deceased,"  he  wrote,  "  was  one 
of  three  others  who  left  the  harbour  in  an  open  boat." 

I  remember  well  what  a  badgering  he  got  in  the  reporters' 
room  over  this  unhappy  paragraph. 

"  How  many  men  were  there  in  the  boat  ?  "  he  was  asked, 
and  he  promptly  answered,  "  Three." 

"That  could  not  be,"  his  tormentor  explained;  "there 
was  the  deceased  and  three  others." 

"  Oh,  there  were  four,"  answered  the  author  of  the 
paragraph. 

"  That  could  not  be,  either,"  was  the  retort ;  "  for  the 
deceased  was  one  of  the  three  others." 

The  interview  terminated  in  an  invitation  to  fight. 

One  other  illustration  and  I  have  done. 

Our  friend,  "  C.C."  we  will  call  him,  was  dining  with  two 
other  Pressmen  when  the  elder  of  the  two,  irritated  by  some 
caustic  chaff  of  his  colleague,  retorted  sharply  : 

"  I  declare  you  are  as  big  a  fool  as  C.C." 

"C.C."  pondered  this  dark  saying  in  his  mind  during 
dinner.  Afterwards  he  found  an  opportunity  to  demand  an 
explanation. 

"  When  you  said  that  just  now,"  he  asked,  "  did  you 
mean  to  insult  me,  or  the  other  chap  ?  " 

"  The  other  chap,  of  course." 

"  That's  all  right,"  was  the  satisfied  reply. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DICK  ADAMS 

"  A  fellow  of  infinite  jest  " — Comedy  in  court — His  first  brief — Sala- 
mander Murphy — Irish  match-making — A  batch  of  good  stories — Red 
Dan  Massy — The  King's  Double. 

TO  one  other  of  the  colleagues  of  those  old  days  a 
tribute  is  due.  All  who  knew  Dick  Adams  will  accord 
to  him  the  supreme  gift  of  humour,  though  it  is  not  easy  to 
find  illustrations  for  an  after  generation ;  for  his  humour 
consisted  not  so  much  in  the  quick  retort  and  the  droll 
story  as  in  the  queer  twist  that  he  gave  to  the  most  prosaic 
incidents.  He  spared  neither  his  friends  nor  himself  when  a 
laugh  was  to  be  raised. 

In  the  newspaper  office  he  played  all  sorts  of  pranks, 
which,  funny  as  they  were  in  the  execution,  would  be  tedious 
to  recall.  When  he  was  called  to  the  Bar  there  was  always  a 
crowd  round  him  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  in  the 
Law  Library,  and  men  neglected  their  business  to  listen  to 
Dick  Adams'  inimitable  comment  on  men  and  things.  In 
later  days  he  enjoyed  a  like  popularity  in  the  smoke-room 
of  the  National  and  Liberal  Club  in  London. 

Eventually  he  was  made  County  Court  Judge  of  Limerick, 
and  while  he  was  a  most  admirable  judge  in  law  and  fact  and 
most  popular  with  litigant  and  practitioner,  his  irre- 
sponsible humour  converted  his  court  into  a  veritable 
theatre  of  varieties,  frequented  by  all  the  visitors  and 
pleasure -seekers  of  the  town.  He  had  a  supreme  contempt 
for  appearances  and  frequently  decided  a  right-of-way  case 
in  the  locus  in  quo,  sitting  on  the  fence  in  dispute,  smoking 
the  pipe  of  peace  in  the  centre  of  the  eager  disputants. 

Only  once  had  I  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  in  court,  and 
as  that  was  a  case  he  decided  against  me  the  incident  is 


52       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

naturally  devoid  of  humorous  associations,  but  the  following 
picture  by  an  eyewitness  gives  some  notion  of  the  conduct  of 
his  court. 

I  only  saw  and  heard  him  once,  but  that  day  is  marked 
in  my  memory  with  a  very  white  stone.  Judge  Adams 
loved  to  be  eccentric.  Apparently  in  the  prime  of  life,  of  a 
cheerful  and  ruddy  countenance  and  with  eyes  that  sparkled 
with  good-natured  humour,  Judge  Adams,  who  was  all 
things  to  all  Limerick,  was  very  much  at  home.  Truly,  he 
seemed  just  a  jolly  visitor  come  to  make  everybody  happy, 
and  perfectly  succeeding. 

Surely  such  an  atmosphere  of  gaiety  never  pervaded  a 
court  before  !  Did  not  the  very  dock  put  forth  blossoms 
and  buds  between  the  spikes  !  The  good  "  new  times  " 
had  come  at  last  ! 

It  was  understood,  of  course,  that  certain  little  matters 
were  to  be  adjusted,  some  re-adjusted.  Each  process  would 
be  slightly  unpleasant  for  somebody;  this  was  to  be 
regretted. 

But  as  it  would  be  a  perfectly  ravishing  experience  for 
everybody  else,  was  there  not  much  reason  for  rejoicing  ? 

A  fishing  case  was  called,  poaching  for  salmon  was  the 
offence.  Naturally  the  gentle  alibi  was  the  first  line  of 
defence. 

But  owing  to  an  inexcusable  want  of  backbone  on  the 
part  of  a  witness  the  alibi  collapsed.  Then  the  harassed 
gentleman  admitted  fishing,  but  for  trout  only. 

"  What  bait  ?  "  asked  Judge  Adams. 

It  was  a  kind  only  known  to  the  highly  initiated,  but  his 
Honour  knew  it  well.  He  remembered  on  one  particular 
Sunday  having  captured  a  ten-pounder  with  it  on  the  very 
spot  mentioned. 

Straightway  judge  and  accused  exchanged  fishing  stories. 
The  court  and  the  case  were  forgotten.  By  pleasant  paths 
they  wandered  on  until  at  last  the  judge  enthusiastically 
said: 

"  Ah,  Mr.  C.,  you  too  are  a  true  fisherman,  and  that  very 
bait  is  the  best  bait  I've  known  for  -for  - 

"  Salm — trout !  yer  honour!  "  cried  the  unhappy  culprit. 


DICK  ADAMS  53 

Oh,  the  twinkle  of  those  wonderful  eyes  and  the  shout 
that  shook  the  court  as  the  curtain  descended. 

The  next  case  was  more  interesting.  A  pretty  and  prettily 
dressed  young  lady  was  accused  of  successful  stone-throwing. 

A  deceased  relative  had  presented  a  local  church  with  a 
stained-glass  memorial  window.  The  young  lady  dis- 
approved, and  choosing  midnight's  solemn  hour  and  the 
largest  heap  of  grey  flints,  providentially  placed  beside  the 
irritating  work  of  art,  wrecked  the  window. 

"  You  say,  Sergeant  B.,  she  threw  those  stones  ?  "  asked 
Judge  Adams. 

"  Yes,  your  Honour." 

"  And  hit  the  window  ?  "  asked  the  judge  incredulously. 

"  Every  time,  your  Honour,"  said  the  sergeant  firmly. 

"  And  was  not  afraid  of  midnight  ghosts  ?  "  further 
inquired  the  judge. 

"  Your  Honour,"  replied  the  sergeant  in  a  hopeless  tone, 
"  she  wasn't  even  afraid  of  me." 

The  judge  took  a  long  look  at  the  pathetic  figure  in  the 
dock. 

"  To  keep  the  peace  for  life,"  was  the  tremendous  sentence 
given  in  a  tremendous  voice.  "  And  if  she  doesn't  you're  to 

wire  me  at  once,  Sergeant  B.,  and  then  I  shall "  and 

Judge  Adams  completed  the  sentence  with  a  Judge  Jeffreys 
look. 

The  young  lady  now  fears  to  brush  the  dust  off  a  stone  or 
look  crooked  at  a  stained-glass  window. 

Here  is  an  illustration  of  his  humour,  more  pungent  and 
less  playful. 

There  is,  as  all  lawyers  know,  a  rule  of  law  that  while  a 
judge  is  allowed  to  have  before  him  the  record  of  the  prisoner 
whom  he  is  trying,  all  knowledge  of  previous  convictions  is 
jealously  withheld  from  the  jury. 

A  prisoner  was  tried  for  larceny  before  Judge  Adams  in 
Limerick.  The  case  was  a  strong  one  and  the  judge  charged 
for  a  conviction,  but  the  jury  gave  the  prisoner,  who  was 
a  respectable-looking  man,  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and 
acquitted  him. 

Thereupon  Dick  Adams  read  out  for  the  astonished  jury 


54       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

a  long  litany  of  previous  convictions  against  the  prisoner 
for  swindling  and  robbery  of  every  form  and  degree. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  bar,"  he  concluded,  "  it  would  be  a 
straining  of  language  to  describe  your  past  career  as  credit- 
able, but  this  most  intelligent  jury  has  been  pleased  to 
acquit  you  of  the  last  crime  laid  to  your  charge,  and  you 
now  leave  this  court  without  any  additional  stain  on  your 
character." 

Inimitable  is  Dick  Adams'  own  account  of  his  handling  of 
his  first  brief  in  court : 

"  At  the  Cork  Assizes  thirty  years  ago  I  was  sitting  in  the 
Bar  room,  engaged  in  discussing  with  a  friend,  who  like 
myself  had  been  called  to  the  Bar  during  the  year,  that 
eternal  topic  of  the  young  barrister — the  hopelessness  of 
the  professional  outlook.  Suddenly  the  door  opened,  I  was 
summoned  by  the  janitor,  and  a  friendly  solicitor  placed  in 
my  rejoicing  hands  that  most  delightful  gift  '  a  first  Brief.' 
It  was  marked  two  guineas,  accompanied  by  a  cheque  for 
that  sum,  and  thereby  retained  me  to  defend  an  alleged 
malefactor  who  was  to  be  tried  in  the  Crown  Court  that  day 
on  a  charge  of  stealing  a  donkey. 

"  I  easily  mastered  the  brief,  which  contained  the  de- 
positions at  the  petty  sessions  and  a  general  denial  of  all 
guilt,  and  after  lunch  my  man  was  put  in  the  dock. 

"  The  prisoner  looked  rather  nervous,  but  the  state  of  his 
mind  was  nothing  to  his  advocate's. 

"  It  was  afterwards  my  fate  to  defend  a  great  many 
prisoners  and  hold  some  civil  briefs,  but  the  original  feeling 
of  '  funk '  never  disappeared.  Some  actors  attain  dis- 
tinction without  ever  losing  the  feeling  of  stage  fright,  and 
the  same  is  true  of  many  advocates,  who  as  their  case  is 
approached  earnestly  pray  that  some  trifling  incident,  such 
as,  say,  the  judge  dropping  in  a  fit,  would  delay  the  case 
until  next  day. 

"  The  judge  before  whom  my  prisoner  was  arraigned 
was  the  late  Mr.  Justice  Lawson,  a  very  pleasant  judge  if 
you  had  a  good  case,  and  very  unpleasant  if  you  had  a  bad 
one.  Above  all,  he  was  a  very  trying  man  to  defend  a 
prisoner  before,  and  had  no  consideration  for  the  feelings 


DICK  ADAMS  55 

of  an  unfortunate  barrister  in  a  hopeless  cause,  bound  of 
necessity  to  try  and  make  the  worst  appear  the  better 
reason. 

"  I  stumbled  through  the  earlier  stages  without  serious 
difficulties,  but  with  the  defence  my  troubles  began.  I 
called  a  witness  to  character,  who  commenced  his  evidence  : 

"  '  I  know  the  prisoner;  he  is  a  horse-dealer.' 

"  The  judge  wrote  down  the  evidence  and  repeated  aloud  : 

"  '  I  know  the  prisoner  ;  he  is  a  horse-stealer.' 

"  '  A  horse-dealer,  my  lord/  I  nervously  interposed. 

"  '  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  the  judge,  '  I  thought 
the  witness  said  horse-stealer.' 

"  My  brethren  of  the  Junior  Bar  roared  at  the  judicial  joke, 
a  duty  expected  from  all  practitioners  by  all  judges  high  or 
low,  and  as  it  is  commonly,  but  most  untruthfully  said, 
nowhere  more  strictly  exacted  than  in  the  County  Court  of 
Limerick. 

"  My  witness  disposed  of,  I  began  to  address  the  court. 
Nervousness  had  by  this  time  completely  overmastered  me 
and  I  no  longer  quite  knew  what  I  was  saying.  My  rhe- 
torical style  was,  I  believe.,  originally  lofty  and  restrained, 
but  I  had  long  contributed  to  a  great  daily  paper  which  still 
flourishes,  and  there  I  had  learned  to  be  a  little  flamboyant. 

"  In  an  evil  moment  I  began  :  '  Gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
my  client's  lips  are  closed,  he  stands  dumb  in  the  dock 
before  you,  but  if  ever  the  genius  of  science  descends  on  the 
chaos  of  English  law ' 

"  '  Don't  mind  the  genius  of  science,'  said  the  pitiless 
judge,  '  but  go  on  with  your  case.' 

"  The  Junior  Bar  again  roared,  and  I,  scarcely  knowing 
whether  I  was  on  my  head  or  my  heels,  delivered  my  per- 
oration. '  At  any  rate,  my  lord  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
no  one  saw  my  client  steal  the  donkey.' 

"  When  the  jury  retired  I  got  back  to  the  fire  in  the  Bar 
room,  where  I  sat  down,  firmly  believing  that  my  legal 
career  had  opened,  culminated  and  closed  in  a  single  day. 

"  In  my  despair  there  came  to  me  a  very  brilliant  and 
very  good-natured  leader  of  the  circuit. 

"  '  Don't  be  a  fool,  Dick,'  he  said  to  me  ;  '  don't  mind  old 


56       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Lawson,  he  means  no  harm,  it's  only  his  downright  way 
with  every  man  who  defends  a  prisoner.  Many  a  time  I've 
suffered  from  him.' 

"  I  took  the  well-meant  advice — forgotten,  I  suppose,  by 
its  utterer  in  half  an  hour  but  remembered  by  me  at  the 
end  of  thirty  years.  I  went  back  into  court  just  as  the  jury 
were  coming  out  of  their  room.  The  issue  paper  was  handed 
down  to  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown.  He  read  it  out,  I  gasped 
with  amazement.  '  What ! '  said  the  judge  indignantly. 
'  Yes,  my  lord,'  said  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown,  '  it's  "  Not 
Guilty."  ' 

"  As  I  left  the  court  in  utter  astonishment  an  acquaint- 
ance on  the  jury  whispered  to  me  : 

"  '  Mr.  Adams,  we  thought  the  judge  was  too  much  down 
on  you  altogether,  so  we  gave  your  client  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt." 

Dick  Adams  used  also  to  tell  with  great  gusto  of  the  utter 
overthrow  of  a  case,  in  which  he  was  engaged  in  Cork,  by  a 
single  imprudent  answer  of  a  too-friendly  witness. 

The  plaintiff  for  whom  he  appeared  as  counsel  was  a 
gentleman  known  to  his  familiar  friends  as  "  Salamander 
Murphy."  The  nickname  had  a  special  significance,  for 
Mr.  Murphy  had  been  engaged  in  very  many  successful 
actions  against  insurance  companies,  and  the  delicate 
suggestion  was  that  he  "  lived  on  fire." 

In  this  particular  case  the  company  resisted  his  claim 
for  compensation  for  the  burning  of  his  shop,  but  they 
had  little  to  go  on  except  general  repudiation  of  the 
plaintiff. 

Dick  Adams,  as  counsel  for  the  plaintiff,  examined  a 
witness  who  rented  unfurnished  apartments  over  another 
shop  of  plaintiff's.  In  reply  to  question  of  the  counsel  he 
stated  that  he  brought  his  own  "  valuable  furniture  "  into 
the  rooms  and  that  he  was  not  insured. 

"  You  had  perfect  confidence  in  Mr.  Murphy  ?  "  asked 
Dick. 

"  Perfect." 

"  And  you  had  no  fear  of  a  fire  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  world.    Salamander  is  not  the  man  to  go 


DICK  ADAMS  57 

back  on  a  friend.  I  knew  he  would  give  me  the  hard  word 
if  anything  was  going  to  happen." 

Dick  lost  his  case. 

I  trust  that  no  apology  is  needed  for  a  budget  of  Dick 
Adams'  good  stories,  for  the  most  part  from  his  own  lips. 

"  The  Irish  Cupid,"  he  maintained,  "  has  a  double 
existence.  In  the  poets  he  is  a  rosy  god  all  smiles  and 
flowers." 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk, — she  as  soft  as  the  dawn. 

The  real  Irish  Cupid  is  a  more  business-like  deity,  and  the 
match  of  Mary  Hayes,  whose  father  has  a  bawn  of  fifteen 
cows,  is  proceeded  by  as  much  negotiation  as  if  she  were  an 
American  heiress  with  a  few  million  dollars.  The  truth  is, 
of  course,  that  the  young  farmer  cannot  marry  without  a 
fortune,  and  that  the  couple  of  hundred  pounds  the  lady 
brings  is  given  to  his  father,  who,  securing  himself  a  pension, 
or  "  liberty,"  gives  up  the  farm  to  the  young  couple, 
sends  a  boy  to  America  with  some  of  the  money,  apprentices 
another  to  a  trade  with  more  and  marries  a  daughter  with 
the  balance. 

"  The  Irishman,"  Dick  Adams  declared,  "  has,  above  all 
things,  a  saving  sense  of  humour;  he  loves  a  good  story, 
though  it  is  against  himself."  Hence  the  growth  of  the 
"  Shrove  Tuesday  Tales,"  humorous  exaggerations  of  the 
undoubted  truth  that  Irish  rural  matches  are  often  matters 
of  arrangement. 

Here  are  a  few  which  have  never  before  appeared  in 
print : — 

On  a  Shrove  Tuesday  morning  a  young  girl  is  roused  from 
her  sleep  by  her  mother. 

"  Get  up,  Mary,"  said  the  mother. 

"  For  what,  mother  ?  "  asked  Mary,  who  was  not  anxious 
to  rise. 

"  To  get  married,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Yerra,  to  whom,  mother  ?  "  said  Mary,  springing  out 
of  bed. 

"  Yerra ;  what's  that  to  you  ?  "  was  the  indignant 
answer. 


58       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Here  is  another  tale  : — 

On  the  Shrove  Tuesday  eve  a  young  girl  bursts  in  on 
some  of  her  companions,  "  Girls,  I'm  going  to  be  married." 

"  To  whom,  Mary  ?  "  queried  all  her  friends  together. 

"  To  one  of  the  Dalys  at  the  Cross." 

"  To  which  of  them  ?  "  was  again  the  unanimous  query. 

"  Well,"  said  the  embarrassed  Mary,  "  it  was  very  dark 
by  the  fire  and  I  did  not  notice  which  of  them." 

Mike  Harrington  wooed  and  won  the  heart  of  Ellen 
Downing.  Unhappily,  the  faithless  man  cast  an  eye  on 
Jane  Donavan,  who  was  quite  as  good-looking  as  Ellen  and 
had  a  genuine  two  hundred  pounds,  while  Ellen  Downing 
had  only  a  doubtful  one  hundred  and  fifty.  So  the  depraved 
wretch  jilted  the  poor  girl,  proposed  to  and  was  accepted  by 
Jane  Donavan. 

On  the  Shrove  Tuesday  morning  Jane  drove  with  her 
intended  on  an  outside  car  to  the  church  to  be  married,  but 
as  she  passed  Ellen's  cottage  she  saw  the  poor  girl  at  the 
door  indulging  in  the  feminine  luxury  of  a  good  cry.  She 
stood  at  the  altar  in  due  course  and  the  priest  asked  her 
would  she  take  "  this  man  to  be  her  husband." 

"  No,  Father,"  she  said ;  "  no,  it  will  never  be  said  of  me 
that  I  canted  Nell  Downing  out  of  a  husband." 

And  "  with  that,"  as  the  Irish  story-tellers  say,  she  walked 
out  of  the  church.  Mike  looked  exceedingly  foolish,  and 
was  soundly  rated  by  the  good  priest,  who  had  previously 
known  nothing  of  his  conduct.  Then  Ellen  Downing  was 
sent  for,  a  reconciliation  was  effected  and  she  and  Mike  were 
married  there  and  then  and  lived  happily  ever  afterwards. 
The  kind-hearted  Jane  next  Shrove  Tuesday  made  the  best 
match  in  the  parish. 

In  some  parts  of  the  county  of  Limerick  a  strange  custom 
prevails.  A  bashful  young  man  when  he  goes  a-wooing 
brings  with  him  a  friend  who  has  more  power  of  speech  and 
is  known  as  "  the  Spaker."  "  The  Bachelor  "  and  "  the 
Spaker  "  went  to  dine  at  the  house  of  an  eligible  young 
girl. 

She  was  bright  and  clever  and  had  a  box  of  novels  from 
a  town  cousin,  so  she  began  to  test  the  literary  tastes  of  her 


DICK  ADAMS  59 

suitors.  "  Do  you  prefer  Jane  Barlow  or  Rosa  Mulholland  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  Have  you  read  '  Knockmagough  '  or  the 
poems  of  Mr.  Yates  ?  " 

The  bachelor  was  not  a  man  of  letters.  The  whiskey  punch 
had  began  to  circulate.  He  whispered  to  "  the  Spaker," 
"  Take  plenty  of  that,  for  I  don't  think  we  will  be  coming 
here  any  more." 

There  is  a  vast  estate  in  the  west  of  Limerick  on  which 
"  Absenteeism  "  is  presented  in  its  best  form.  The  land- 
lord, the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest  European  families, 
has  little  or  no  pecuniary  interest  in  the  estate,  but  it  has 
been  managed  by  a  dynasty  of  land  agents — grandfather, 
father  and  son — who  have  ruled  it  well  for  the  owners  and 
happily  for  the  tenants. 

One  of  the  dynasty  was  approached  by  a  tenant  who  was 
four  years  in  arrears. 

"  Forgive  me  two  years,  sir,"  said  the  tenant ;  "  I  want 
to  get  married  and  no  girl  will  have  me  with  these  arrears." 

The  agent,  who  was  a  wise  man  and  knew  that  arrears 
are  a  millstone  to  a  tenant  and  very  little  value  to  the 
landlord,  forgave  them  accordingly. 

A  year  or  two  passed  away  and  the  tenant  appeared  again 
at  the  office  asking  to  be  relieved  of  the  balance  of  the 
arrears,  and  pleaded  that  they  were  still  standing  in  the 
way  of  his  matrimonial  designs. 

"  Why,"  said  the  agent,  "  you  told  me  if  I  took  off  two 
years  you  could  get  married." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  tried,"  was  the  answer,  "  but  the  only  girl  I 
could  get  to  have  me  was  the  smith's  daughter,  who  has  only 
one  eye,  and  if  I  have  full  receipt  I  could  get  a  girl  with  two 
eyes,  and  as  good  as  any  in  the  parish." 

The  plea  was  irresistible.  The  two  years  were  remitted, 
and  the  young  man  married  a  girl  with  two  eyes  of  that 
"  unholy  blue  "  which  is  nowhere  so  charming  as  among 
the  green  hills  and  pleasant  valleys  of  west  Limerick. 

The  Irish  farmer  has,  as  a  rule,  little  sympathy  with  a 
son's  captiousness  in  the  matter  of  matrimony.  He  holds 
the  view  which  crabbed  age  has  always  pressed  upon 
romantic  youth. 


60       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Away  with  your  witchcraft  of  beauty's  alarms, 
The  slender  bit  beauty  you  clasp  in  your  arms ; 

Oh,  give  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  of  charms, 
Oh,  give  me  the  lass  with  the  well-stockit  farms. 

"  The  girl  is  a  decent  father's  and  mother's  daughter," 
urged  such  a  sire  on  a  reluctant  son,  "  and  she  has  a  nice 
bit  of  land  of  her  own." 

"  But,  father,"  objected  the  lad,  "  she  has  a  lame  leg." 

"  Is  it  an  opera  dancer  you  want,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  old 
gentleman  fiercely. 

I  have  often  heard  Dick  Adams  protest  vigorously 
against  the  theory  that  because  a  man  tells  a  more  or  less 
humorous  story  he  tells  it  to  jeer  at  his  country.  "  I  tell 
these  tales,"  he  used  to  say,  "  as  '  founded  on  fact,'  not  as 
facts."  Love  in  Ireland,  as  elsewhere,  often  presides  when 
what  is  called  the  "  Torch  of  Hymen  "  is  lighted.  But  love 
smiles,  too,  on  unions  that  owe  their  origin  to  prudence. 
Happy  and  pure  are  homes  of  Ireland,  happier  and  purer 
than  any  others  on  earth. 

In  all  seriousness,  it  is  a  matter  of  greatest  advantage 
that  young  people  in  Ireland  do  not,  as  in  other  days,  rush 
into  early  and  imprudent  marriages.  Marriages  in  Ireland 
are  now  later  than  in  most  other  countries. 

"  So  Lizzie  Ahern  is  going  to  be  married,"  I  once  said  to  a 
man  in  east  Cork. 

"It  is  time  for  her,"  he  replied,  "  sure  the  '  bridhogue ' 
was  left  at  her  door  every  Shrove  for  the  last  nine  years." 

The  "  bridhogue  "  is  a  rag  doll  left  at  the  door  of  girls  who 
won't  clear  out  of  the  way  of  other  maidens  by  getting 
married.  It  is  an  attention  bitterly  resented  by  the  males 
of  the  family,  and  often  causes  broken  heads. 

"  I  was  driving  once,"  Dick  said,  "  in  the  county  Tip- 
perary  when  we  passed  a  nice  country  place. 

" '  Who  lives  there  ?  '  I  asked  the  driver. 

'"A  gentleman  they  call  Red  Dan  Massy/  was  the  reply. 

"  '  And  why/  I  asked,  '  do  they  call  him  Red  Dan  ?  ' 

"  '  Begorra,  I  don't  know,  sir/  said  the  driver,  '  for  his 
hair  is  black  and  his  name  is  William/  ' 

The  owner  of  the  house  was  the  gallant  General  Massy, 


DICK  ADAMS  61 

whose  bravery  at  the  attempt  to  storm  a  famous  Crimean 
fort  won  for  him  the  soubriquet  of  "  Redan  Massy." 

Great  men  have  their  weaknesses.  Not  a  little  proud 
was  poor  Dick  Adams  of  a  very  striking  resemblance  to  his 
late  Majesty  King  Edward  VII.  He  wore  his  beard  trimmed 
in  the  same  fashion  and  occasionally  frequented  the  same 
health  resorts.  He  had  many  fantastic  stories  to  tell  of  his 
adventures  and  misadventures  from  being  mistaken  for  his 
Majesty. 

"  '  See  here,  Richard/  said  the  King  to  me  on  one  occasion, 
'  this  won't  do,  you  know.' 

"  '  What  won't  do,  your  Majesty  ? '  asked  I. 

"  '  Well,  it  comes  to  this :  you  or  I  must  leave  Homburg, 
and  I  vote  we  toss  up  which  it  is  to  be.  I  don't  in  the  least 
mind  them  mistaking  you  for  me ;  I  don't  mind  the  bands 
playing  "  God  save  the  King  "  whenever  you  appear.  But 
when  I  cannot  show  my  face  out  of  doors  without  some 
seedy-looking  chap  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder  and  singing 
out  with  a  strong  Cork  accent,  "  Hallo,  Dick,  how's  your- 
self ?  Come  and  have  a  drink,"  it  becomes  a  bit  tiresome.' 

"  So  we  tossed  up,"  Dick  concluded;  "he  won,  and  I  left." 


CHAPTER  VII 
FATHER  JAMES  HEALY 

The  Irish  Sydney  Smith — A  diner-out  of  the  first  water — Tuft-hunted, 
not  tuft-hunter — Outdoor  relief — His  curate  kept  a  carriage — His 
retort  to  Judge  Keogh — Hit  all  round — "  You  don't  cut  your  friends  " — 
Under  the  mistletoe  or  the  rose — A  kindly  act — An  eloquent  tribute. 

BEFORE  I  pass  from  my  experiences  as  a  reporter  I 
may  be  allowed  to  recall  two  very  remarkable  men 
with  whom  my  acquaintance  gradually  ripened  into  friend- 
ship.   Both  were  Catholic  priests,  Father  James  Healy  and 
Father  Tom  Burke,  O.P.,  one  the  greatest  wit,  the  other 
at   the  same  time  the  most   eloquent   preacher  and   the 
richest  humorist  of  their  generation. 
Of  Father  Healy  it  may  be  truly  said 

A  merrier  man 

Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth 
None  ever  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal. 

For  many  years  he  held  a  unique  position  in  Dublin.  He 
was  the  Sydney  Smith  of  the  Irish  metropolis,  "  a  diner-out 
of  the  first  water."  His  social  charm  made  him  a  welcome 
guest  at  the  table  of  such  men  as  Gladstone,  Salisbury  and 
Disraeli.  It  was  the  ambition  of  every  distinguished  man 
who  lived  in  Dublin,  or  who  visited  Dublin,  to  dine  in 
Father  Healy's  company.  In  one  of  Lord  Randolph 
Churchill's  letters,  preserved  in  the  admirable  biography  by 
his  son,  he  writes  after  a  session  of  unusual  stress,  that 
nothing  could  restore  him  but  "  a  night  spent  in  Father 
Healy's  company."  The  festivities  of  Dublin  circled  round 
him.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  the  invitations  of  the  great, 
while  on  the  other  hand  an  invitation  to  his  own  humble 
"  shanty  "  in  Little  Bray  was  the  most  prized  of  all  social 
distinctions.  A  ceremonious  Viceregal  banquet  would  be 

62 


Photo  by  Chancellor  and  Son,  Dublin. 


REV.  FATHER  JAMES  HEALY 

Parish  priest  of  Little  Bray. 


p.  62 


FATHER   JAMES   HEALY  63 

immediately  postponed  if  it  were  found  that  "  the  Padre  " 
was  giving  one  of  his  little  dinners  the  same  day  and  had 
honoured  the  Viceroy  with  an  invitation. 

Those  eagerly  sought-for  dinners  consisted  of  a  single 
joint,  sometimes  preceded  by  fish  or  soup.  He  had  one 
servant,  who  when  she  had  cooked  the  dinner  attended  at 
table.  The  host  carved  and  the  guests  passed  the  plates 
round.  On  one  occasion  a  noble  visitor  who  had  been 
brought  by  the  Viceroy  to  dinner,  much  to  the  amusement 
of  the  other  guests,  looked  round  for  someone  to  take  his 
coat. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  lord,"  interposed  Father  Healy,  "  all 
my  footmen  left  without  notice  this  morning  and  I  have  not 
had  time  to  replace  them ;  I  will  take  your  coat  myself  if  you 
will  kindly  allow  me." 

"  I'll  earn  sixpence,  Father  Healy,"  said  Earl  Spencer, 
when  the  genial  Padre  was  hastening  from  his  own  dinner- 
table  to  attend  a  sick  call,  and  his  Excellency  helped  him  on 
with  his  coat  in  the  hall. 

"  And  I,"  retorted  Father  Healy,  "  will  '  take  the  benefit 
of  the  Act.'  " 

Father  Healy  was  poor.  The  income  of  his  parish  did  not 
exceed  £200  a  year  at  the  outside,  and  he  used  to  say  good- 
humouredly  he  did  not  know  how  he  would  live  at  all  if  it 
were  not  for  the  "  outdoor  relief  "  he  received.  His  outdoor 
relief,  which  took  the  form  of  fruit,  game  and  wine,  he  freely 
shared  with  the  poorest  of  his  parishioners. 

Nor  were  game  from  the  preserves,  fruit  from  the  hot- 
houses and  wines  from  the  cellars  of  the  nobility  the  only 
forms  which  Father  Healy 's  "  outdoor  relief  "  assumed. 
His  well-to-do  parishioners  made  liberal  contributions  to  his 
larder.  A  fine  clutch  of  young  ducks  arrived  among  these 
gifts,  and  Father  Healy  watched  their  progress  from  the 
pond  to  the  table  with  lively  satisfaction.  Seeing  them 
sporting  in  the  water,  he  exclaimed  with  a  whimsical  com- 
passion, "  Poor  innocents,  how  they  enjoy  themselves, 
never  thinking  that  my  green  peas  are  growing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  garden  wall ! ' ' 

Cardinal  McCabe  loved  to  tell  the  story  of  his  first  visit  to 


64       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Father  Healy's  parish.  His  Eminence  attended  in  cope 
and  mitre  at  the  humble  church  in  Little  Bray  to  administer 
the  sacrament  of  confirmation. 

"  I  hear  you  have  got  a  grand  cathedral  here,"  he  said 
jestingly  when  Father  Healy  hurried  to  receive  him  at  the 
gate. 

" '  Enter,  its  grandeur  overwhelms  you  not,'  "  was  Father 
Healy's  ready  reply,  quoting  from  Byron's  description  of 
St.  Peter's  at  Rome. 

On  another  occasion  he  asked  a  priest  to  assist  him  in 
some  special  ceremonial.  The  priest  excused  himself, 
saying  he  knew  little  about  ceremonies. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Father  Healy,  "  you  do  not  know 
less  than  I  do." 

"  I  am  sure  to  lose  myself,"  said  the  priest. 

"  No  one  can  be  lost  in  my  church,"  retorted  Father  Healy. 

The  gifted  Father  Healy,  the  chosen  friend  of  the  great 
ones  of  the  world,  was  of  humble  origin  and  was  never 
ashamed  of  it.  His  father  was  a  provision  merchant  in 
James'  Street,  and  to  the  end  Father  Healy  retained  pleasant 
recollections  of  his  father's  occupation. 

One  day  when  driving  in  a  gig  with  an  aristocratic  friend 
their  way  was  blocked  by  a  drove  of  pigs. 

The  aristocrat  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  exclaim  : 

"  Damn  those  swine  !  " 

Father  Healy  quietly  interposed,  "  I  would  rather  see 
them  saved." 

I  remember  reading  somewhere  a  story  of  a  Protestant 
bishop  who,  on  receipt  of  some  complaints  of  an  incumbent 
of  his  diocese,  wrote  privately  to  a  churchwarden  in  the 
parish  concerning  the  clergyman  in  question,  to  inquire 
if  he  preached  the  true  gospel  and  was  correct  in  his  conver- 
sation and  carriage. 

"  He  preaches  the  gospel  right  enough,"  the  reply  ran, 
"  but  he  keeps  no  carriage." 

The  reply  fits  Father  Healy.  He^preached  the  gospel,  but 
he  kept  no  carriage.  He  never  had  a  conveyance  of  his  own, 
and  on  one  occasion  driving  in  a  phaeton  he  encountered  a 
nobleman  of  his  acquaintance. 


FATHER  JAMES   HEALY  65 

"  Hello,  Father  Healy,"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  "  do 
you  keep  a  phaeton  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  priest,  with  absolute  truth,  "  but  I 
keep  a  curate  that  does." 

After  all,  it  is  no  small  wonder  that  Father  Healy  lives 
in  the  mind  of  the  general  public  chiefly  as  a  sayer  of  good 
things,  for  no  man  that  ever  lived  said  better.  He  has  been 
compared  to  Sydney  Smith,  but  the  comparison  is  hardly 
just — to  Father  Healy.  The  wit  of  the  Irishman  was  not  the 
less  brilliant  of  the  two,  and  he  had  a  quiet,  keen  humour 
which  was  all  his  own.  There  never  was  a  stauncher  friend  : 
he  maintained  to  the  last  his  friendship  with  Judge  Keogh, 
even  after  Judge  Keogh  became  generally  obnoxious  to  the 
priests  and  people  of  Ireland  by  his  ferocious  judgment  in 
the  Galway  election  petition.  But  Father  Healy  did  not 
spare  his  friend  an  occasional  sharp  touch  where  the  occasion 
seemed  to  demand  it. 

In  a  quasi-political  trial  Father  Healy  was  summoned  as 
a  witness,  and  was  chaffed  by  Judge  Keogh  about  the  dangers 
of  cross-examination. 

"  What  will  you  do,  Father  Healy,"  said  the  judge,  "  if 
that  villain  Butt  cross-examines  you  as  to  your  friendship 
with  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  replied  Father  Healy. 

"  What  will  you  answer,"  the  judge  persisted,  "if  he 
asks  you  '  Is  it  true  that  you  a  good  Catholic  and  an  Irish- 
man are  a  friend  of  the  infamous  Judge  Keogh  ?  ' 

"  I  will  appeal  to  the  court  for  protection,"  retorted 
Father  Healy.  "  I  will  say,  '  My  lord,  am  I  bound  to  in- 
criminate myself  ?  ' 

On  another  occasion  the  judge  met  him  and  stopped  him. 
"  Father  Healy,"  said  he  abruptly,  "  I  have  a  crow  to 
pluck  with  you." 

"  Let  it  be  a  turkey,  and  I  will  be  with  you  at  six  p.m.," 
said  Father  Healy. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  judge,  delighted  at  the  chance  of 
Father  Healy 's  company,  "  but  I  must  have  the  crow  too." 

"  Then,"  said  Father  Healy,  "  I  hope  it  will  be  a  crow 
without  caws." 


66       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Another  of  Father  Healy's  special  friends  was  Father 
Meehan,  a  distinguished  author  whose  caustic  tongue 
alienated  most  of  his  acquaintances.  Even  Father  Healy 
himself  did  not  always  escape,  but  he  gave  as  good  as  he 
got.  They  travelled  together  on  the  Continent,  and  Father 
Healy  took  occasion  more  than  once  to  give  Father  Meehan  a 
touch  of  the  caustic  he  so  freely  applied  to  others.  On  one 
occasion  at  an  hotel,  meeting  some  friends,  and  ignoring  the 
fact  that  Father  Meehan  was  within  earshot,  he  proceeded 
to  describe  him  to  the  company. 

"  Do  you  see  that  fellow  yonder  ?  Though  we  are  not  on 
speaking  terms  we  are  obliged  to  travel  together  because  he 
cannot  manage  one  word  of  the  French  and  is  obliged  to 
come  to  me  to  help  him  out  of  every  difficulty." 

The  fact  that  Father  Meehan  was  an  admirable  linguist 
gave  special  sting  to  the  description. 

Next  day  Father  Healy  received  a  curt  note  from  Father 
Meehan  intimating  that  they  must  part  company,  and 
requesting  the  return  of  a  razor  he  had  lent.  Father  Healy 
replied  : 

"  My  dear  Meehan,  I  return  you  the  razor.  If  you  should 
want  to  commit  suicide  I  should  advise  you  to  get  it  ground 
first." 

Finding,  however,  that  Father  Meehan  took  his  pleasan- 
tries too  seriously,  Father  Healy  wrote  :  "  Life  is  too  short 
for  this  kind  of  folly.  Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow." 
Henceforward  their  friendship  was  without  a  break. 

Father  Healy  wrote  no  books  and  made  no  speeches. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  controversialist  about  him,  he 
"  lacked  gall  to  make  oppression  bitter."  "  Of  manners 
gentle  and  affections  mild,  in  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child," 
it  was  his  mission  in  life  to  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 

In  Ireland  among  the  extremists  Father  Healy  was  not 
popular,  but  no  man  did  more  to  disarm  bigotry  and 
prejudice  with  which  Irishmen  were  regarded  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel.  His  witticisms  were  keen  indeed,  but 
always  kindly  and  left  no  sting  behind. 

Never  posing  as  a  politician,  he  distributed  his  good- 
humoured  raps  with  perfect  impartiality  to  the  extremists 


FATHER  JAMES  HEALY  67 

of  both  sides.  Meeting  a  parish  priest  who  had  been  active 
in  the  agrarian  agitation,  Father  Healy  asked  him  how  he 
was  getting  on  at  politics. 

"  Oh,  Father  Healy,"  the  friend  replied,  "  I  am  getting 
too  old  for  politics,  I  leave  all  that  kind  of  thing  to  my 
curate." 

"  Quite  right,"  Father  Healy  retorted,  "  quite  right.  It 
would  never  suit  you  at  your  time  of  life  to  lie  out  at  night 
in  a  wet  ditch  for  a  pot-shot  at  a  landlord.  You  would  get 
your  death  from  rheumatism." 

On  the  other  hand,  when  Mr.  Balfour  on  one  occasion 
asked  him  if  there  was  any  truth  in  the  statements  in  the 
Nationalist  papers  that  he  was  generally  disliked  in  Ireland, 
Father  Healy  promptly  replied  : 

"  My  dear  sir,  if  the  devil  were  half  so  well  hated  my 
occupation  would  be  gone." 

To  attempt  a  selection  of  his  good  things  is  to  attempt  the 
impossible.  They  flowed  from  him  freely  and  carelessly  as 
the  jewels  from  the  lips  of  the  little  girl  in  the  fairy  tale,  and 
only  a  few  have  been  picked  up  and  treasured  in  the  memory 
of  his  friends  and  admirers. 

Nothing  happier  can  be  imagined  than  his  reply  to  the 
dyspeptic  priest  whom  he  encountered  fresh  from  his  sea- 
water  bath,  and  who,  having  assured  him  that  he  often 
derived  much  benefit  from  drinking  a  tumblerful  of  salt 
water,  anxiously  inquired  : 

"  Do  you  think  I  might  venture  on  a  second  ?  " 

Father  Healy,  after  grave  consideration,  solemnly 
answered : 

"  I  think  you  might,  I  don't  believe  it  would  be  missed." 

On  another  occasion  there  was  a  discussion  in  company 
regarding  an  illiterate  acquaintance  who  had  suddenly 
taken  to  constant  attendance  in  Kildare  Street  Library. 
Various  opinions  were  advanced  to  account  for  this  meta- 
morphosis. One  of  the  company  at  last  suggested  that  he 
had  heard  their  friend  was  about  "  to  bring  out  a  book." 
Father  Healy  interposed  with  a  quiet  objection  : 

"  I  don't  think  he  can,  he  is  too  well  watched." 

A  familiar  friend  introducing  Father  Healy  to  his  new 


68       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

library  and  pointing  to  the  books  on  the  well-filled  shelves, 
exclaimed  : 

"  You  see  around  you  my  dearest  friends  !  " 

Father  Healy  took  a  volume  from  a  shelf  and  examined  it. 

"  I  observe,"  he  said  quietly,  "  that  you  don't  cut  your 
friends." 

Not  less  felicitous  was  his  retort  to  his  friend  the  Pro- 
testant Archbishop,  whom  he  met  as  he  was  hurrying  on  for 
a  train.  The  Archbishop  showed  him  his  watch  and  assured 
him  that  they  had  abundance  of  time.  They  arrived  to  see 
the  train  steaming  out  of  the  station. 

The  Archbishop  was  much  distressed.  "  I  cannot  tell 
how  it  happened,  Father  Healy  ;  it  is  a  valuable  presenta- 
tion watch  and  I  had  the  utmost  faith  in  it." 

"  Better  have  had  good  works  in  it,"  retorted  Father 
Healy. 

He  had  a  discussion  with  a  distinguished  lady  at  a  garden 
party  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge  as  to  the  part  favouritism 
played  in  the  Irish  promotions.  The  lady  stoutly  maintained 
that  success  was  the  reward  of  ability  and  industry. 

"  Men  get  on,"  she  said,  "  by  sticking  at  their  business." 

Father  Healy  indicated  a  lawyer  politician  who  had  just 
risen  to  a  very  distinguished  position.  "  How  would  you 
say  he  got  on  ?  "  he  asked  innocently. 

"  By  sticking  at  his  business,"  the  lady  stoutly  replied. 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  Father  Healy;  "  I  always  thought 
he  got  on  by  sticking  at  nothing." 

Father  Healy  could  take  a  joke  as  well  as  make  one. 
There  was  no  taint  in  his  nature  of  that  prudery  that  takes 
offence  where  none  is  intended. 

It  is  told,  with  what  truth  I  know  not,  that  one  Christmas 
night  at  a  small  gathering  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge  the  beautiful 
Countess  Spencer  (Spenser's  "Faerie  Queene,"  as  she  was 
called  in  Ireland)  stood  defiantly  under  a  cluster  of  silver 
berries  and  sent  a  playful  challenge  to  Father  Healy. 
"Now,  Padre,  now  is  your  chance  under  the  mistletoe." 

Like  a  flash  came  the  smiling  reply  : 

"  Oh,  no,  my  lady,  we  only  do  that  sub  rosa." 

I  was  walking  with  Father  Healy  through  Westmorland 


/Tk^R 


FATHER  JAMES  HEALY  69 

Street  when  a  ragged  loaier  came  begging  to  him.  Pointing 
after  him  as  he  slouched  away,  sixpence  richer  than  he  came, 
Father  Healy  said  to  me  : 

"  That's  a  nice  condition  for  a  poor  Irish  landlord." 

"Why  in  the  name  of  wonder,"  I  demanded,  "do  you 
say  that  fellow  is  an  Irish  landlord  ?  " 

"  He  has  the  universal  and  infallible  hall-mark." 

"  And  that  is  ?  " 

"  A  rent  in  a  rear." 

On  another  occasion  I  met  Father  Healy  hurrying  along 
the  platform  in  Westland  Row  Station.  The  fish  for  one  of 
his  little  dinners  had  miscarried. 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  lost  sole,"  he  explained. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  when  the  situation  was  made  plain  to  me, 
"  I  hope  it  will  be  a  good  sole  when  you  find  it." 

"  If  it  is  not,"  Father  Healy  promptly  responded,  "  it  will 
be  damned." 

I  have  been  often  in  company  with  this  genial  priest,  and 
have  been  kept  in  a  constant  state  of  delight  and  amusement 
during  the  evening,  but  when  I  attempted  afterwards  to 
remember  the  good  stories  which  delighted  the  company, 
I  found  my  memory  dazzled  by  his  brilliancy  as  one's  eyes 
are  dazzled  by  too  much  light,  and  only  remember  how 
much  we  laughed  during  the  evening  and  who  made  the 
laughter. 

Though  Father  Healy  deservedly  ranks  as  one  of  the 
brightest  and  most  genial  of  Irish  humorists,  though  as  a 
sayer  of  good  things  he  holds  his  own  with  Swift,  Moore, 
Curran  and  O'Connell,  fyet  amongst  those  who  knew  him 
best  it  is  the  unostentatious  piety  and  kindly  heart,  "  open 
as  day  to  melting  charity,"  of  the  Soggarth  Aroon,  that  are 
best  remembered. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  many  stories  told  of  his 
whimsical  benevolence.  Father  Healy  had  in  his  parish  and 
under  his  charge  a  schoolmistress  whom  he  regarded  with 
special  favour.  The  girl  was  musical  and  anxious  to  cultivate 
her  talent.  With  this  object  she  resolved  to  buy  a  piano  on 
the  three  years'  system,  and  applied  to  Father  Healy  for  the 
necessary  certificate  of  character  to  be  forwarded  with  her 


yo       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

application.  She  was  much  distressed  for  two  long  days  to 
receive  no  reply,  and  feared  she  had  offended  the  priest, 
but  on  the  third  day  Father  Healy  himself  came  to  her 
cottage  and  behind  him  came  a  donkey  cart  containing  a 
piano. 

"It's  my  own,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  I  am  getting  too  old 
for  music,  so  instead  of  giving  you  a  character  which  you 
don't  require,  I  give  you  a  piano  which  you  do." 

His  curate,  the  Rev.  Joseph  Burke,  who  knew  him  well 
and  loved  him,  pays  an  eloquent  tribute  to  his  illustrious 
friend. 

"  The  world,"  he  said,  "  of  which  he  was  an  ornament, 
knew  him  and  idolized  him,  but  the  few  who  were  acquainted 
with  his  other  and  inner  life,  his  childlike  faith  and  tender 
piety,  revered  and  blessed  him,  not  for  his  mental  power  only, 
but  also  and  more  so,  for  his  hidden  goodness.  The  cheery 
word,  that  so  often  sweetened  the  gift  from  his  open  hand, 
is  still  cherished  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor  of  his  parish." 

On  one  occasion,  at  the  late  Lord  Justice  FitzGibbon's 
table,  Lord  Randolph  Churchill  paid  a  compliment  to  Father 
Healy  in  a  style  essentially  his  own. 

"  You  are  a  dangerous  man,  Father  Healy.  It  is  well 
for  us  Protestants  that  all  priests  are  not  like  you,  Padre." 

Lord  Randolph  was  often  cynical,  and  the  guests  looked 
grave,  not  knowing  what  was  to  follow. 

"  How  so  ?  "  asked  the  Padre,  quite  at  his  ease. 

"  Because  in  that  case,"  replied  Lord  Randolph,  "  we 
would  all  become  Catholics." 


From  a  photograph  by  Schroeder,  Dublin. 

REV.  FATHER  TOM  BURKE,  O.P. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
FATHER  TOM  BURKE 

A  prince  of  preachers — An  unrivalled  humorist — Extracts  from  his  letters 
— His  life  in  Rome — The  earliest  remembrance  of  his  childhood — Finn 
Macool  and  Finnesse — "  An  ould  goose  " — His  mother-in-law — 
Mimicking  a  cardinal — Hoaxing  a  bishop. 

OF  Father  Tom  Burke  also  it  may  be  truly  said  that  he 
was  above  all  things  a  devout  Christian  priest.  But 
there  was  no  taint  of  the  sour-souled  Puritan  in  him.  He 
was  as  light-hearted  as  a  child  and  as  full  of  the  innocent 
enjoyment  of  life.  "  How  easy  it  is,  Matt,"  he  said  to  me 
one  day  in  the  garden  at  Tallagh,  "  to  serve  God  joyfully  in 
this  beautiful  world  !  " 

The  greatest  preacher  of  his  generation  he  was  as  fluent 
in  Italian  as  in  English,  and  his  pre-eminence  was  as  fully 
recognized  in  Rome  as  in  Ireland.  "  The  Prince  of  Preach- 
ers "  was  the  name  conferred  on  him  by  the  late  Pope  after 
hearing  him  in  St.  Peter's. 

Of  stately  presence,  with  a  rich,  sonorous  voice  that  filled 
the  largest  church  like  articulate  and  harmonious  thunder, 
he  swayed  with  despotic  power  the  hearts  of  his  congregation. 
This  is  no  place  for  sermons,  but  I  cannot  refrain  from 
repeating  a  characteristic  passage  in  a  scorching  denuncia- 
tion of  the  vice  of  intemperance. 

He  described  the  drunkard  lying  helpless  in  the  gutter. 

"  A  stray  dog  comes  up  to  him,  snuffs  at  him,  wags  his  tail 
and  walks  away  contemptuously.  The  dog  can  walk,  the 
man  can't." 

The  same  evening  at  dinner  a  good-humoured  parish  priest 
chaffed  Father  Tom  on  the  distinction  between  his  precept 
and  practice. 


72       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  You  preached  us  a  great  sermon  against  drink,  Father 
Tom,"  he  said,  "  but  you  don't  seem  to  mislike  your  own 
tumbler  of  punch." 

"  I  preached  against  drunkenness,  not  against  drink," 
retorted  Father  Tom ;  "  I  have  no  quarrel  with  drink  in 
moderation.  Tell  me,"  he  added  abruptly,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  "  did  you  ever  see  a  merry-meeting  round  a 
pump  ?  " 

At  one  time  I  was  pressed  by  Father  Burke's  sister 
Bedilia  to  write  his  Life,  and  for  this  purpose  a  number  of  his 
letters  were  put  into  my  hands.  The  work  was  anticipated 
by  the  late  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  but  the  letters  were  not  recalled 
nor  published.  I  am  tempted  to  give  a  few  extracts  here  for 
the  edification  of  those  in  whose  memory  Father  Tom  lives 
only  as  an  eloquent  preacher  and  an  unrivalled  humorist. 
They  afford  glimpses  of  the  private  character  and  life  of  the 
man — humble,  affectionate,  devout. 

The  letters  are  written  to  his  mother  and  his  sisters.  They 
are  the  simple  outpourings  of  a  warm  heart  with  no  pretence 
to  grace  of  style.  They  were  never,  of  course,  intended  for 
the  public,  but  using  the  discretion  given  me  by  his  sister 
I  venture  to  extract  a  passage  here  and  there  which  may  be 
published  without  any  indiscreet  intrusion  on  the  private 
life  of  the  great  Dominican. 

The  first  of  the  series,  written  from  Perugia  to  his  sister 
Mary  in  Galway,  is  dated  as  far  back  as  June,  1848.  Matters 
of  private  concern  and  public  interest  are  delightfully 
mixed  up  in  the  letter.  He  mentions  incidentally  that  his 
"  whole  worldly  wealth  consists  of  twelve  shillings,"  but  he 
adds,  "  every  day  is  adding  to  my  size,  health  and  happi- 
ness." "  Thank  God,"  he  writes,  "  for  the  splendid  flow 
of  health  I  am  enjoying  ;  everything  agrees  with  me.  The 
Italians  say  my  growth  is  observable  after  a  week.  When 
we  visit  the  nuns  they  all  exclaim  :  '  Borgio  grew  a  great 
piece  since  we  saw  him  last  !  '  The  habit  which  was  too 
long  in  January  had  to  be  lengthened  in  April."  Mingled 
with  private  news  and  inquiries  he  writes  of  public  affairs : 
"  We  are  enjoying  a  profound  peace  in  the  ecclesiastical 
state  at  present.  There  were  some  disturbances  at  Rome, 


FATHER  TOM   BURKE  73 

but  they  are  passed,  and  the  temporal  sceptre  is  still  wielded 
by  our  immortal  pontiff." 

The  following  extract,  written,  it  is  always  to  be  remem- 
bered, frankly  from  a  brother  to  a  sister,  is  the  earliest 
record  of  success  in  the  pulpit  of  the  greatest  Catholic 
preacher  of  his  generation. 

"  My  sermon  on  Holy  Thursday  gave  universal  satis- 
faction. The  deacon,  who  possesses  talents  of  the  first  order, 
for  he  is  a  poet  and  an  orator,  made  me  repeat  my  discourse 
before  him  several  times  in  his  room,  so  I  delivered  it  before 
the  convent  much  better  than  I  expected."  The  eloquence 
of  the  boy  preacher  is  appropriately  rewarded  :  "On  Easter 
Sunday,"  he  writes,  "  the  Superior  sent  me  a  dish  of  most 
delicious  sweetmeats."  "  I  am  nearly  six  months  vested," 
the  letter  concludes,  "and  after  six  months  more  I  will  make 
the  solemn  vows  of  profession.  Pray  for  me  that  I  may 
make  them  with  fervour  and  observe  them  with  religious 
fidelity,  that  becoming  a  good  son  of  our  holy  father  St. 
Dominick,  through  the  protection  of  my  patron  the  angelic 
doctor  St.  Thomas,  I  may  still  remain  your  most  loving 
brother,  N.  A.  T.  Burke."  | 

The  next  letter,  written  just  a  year  later,  in  June,  1849, 
discloses  a  wonderful  change  from  tranquillity  to  feverish 
anxiety  in  the  Eternal  City. 

"  These,"  he  writes,  "  are  fearful  times  in  Rome.  Troops 
are  pouring  in  from  all  quarters,  the  enemy  are  daily  drawing 
their  lines  nearer,  everyone  is  armed  and  daily  expecting 
the  assault.  Much  blood  will  flow  before  the  Holy  Father 
returns.  We  have  not  the  cholera  yet,  but  being  in  France 
they  say  it  will  soon  visit  Italy.  I  have  heard,  but  I  hope 
it  is  not  true,  that  they  have  dug  a  mine  under  St.  Peter's 
in  order  to  blow  it  up  if  they  are  driven  out.  What  a  crime 
that  would  be  against  the  whole  Catholic  world !  When  I 
first  entered  the  great  church,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  struck  dumb 
with  amazement,  my  soul  was  exalted  as  if  endeavouring  to 
burst  the  earthly  bonds  that  held  it  as  I  gazed  on  that  vast 
and  wondrous  dome." 

Mingled  with  these  exciting  tidings  are  eager  inquiries  for 
the  local  gossip  of  his  native  town.  "  In  your  answer,"  he 


74       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

writes,  "  send  me  all  the  news  you  can  think  of.  I  read  with 
eagerness  all  news  of  Galway." 

Indeed,  Galway  is  constantly  in  his  thoughts  and  letters. 
On  15  October,  1853,  ne  writes  from  Woodchester  to  his 
sister  Norah,  who  apparently  has  just  sent  him  an  enormous 
cake,  that  he  "no  longer  delights  in  sweets,"  and  bids  her 
send  next  time  instead  of  a  cake  "  a  box  of  Arran  gurnity  or 
dried  ling."  "  I  know  that  a  bit  of  really  well-cured  Galway 
fish  would  be  quite  acceptable  to  my  brothers  here,  and  it 
would  besides  raise  '  the  ancient  citie  of  the  Tribes '  in  their 
estimation,  for  what  with  the  miserable  specimen  of  a 
Galway  man  they  have  in  me,  and  what  with  the  hints  and 
insinuations  of  certain  gentlemen  from  Cork  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood, I  fear  their  estimate  of  our  great  city  is  a  little 
below  the  just  standard."  So  the  Galway  reputation  was 
redeemed  by  a  box  of  ling. 

Here  is  an  interesting  extract  from  a  letter,  written  from 
Rome  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  1856,  to  his  sister 
Bridget : 

"  I  fear  you  will  be  half  vexed  with  me  when  I  tell  you 
I  never  spent  so  happy,  so  perfectly  happy,  a  Christmas.  I 
went  to  St.  Peter's  at  one  o'clock  on  Christmas  night  and  I 
heard  matins  and  High  Mass,  which  began  at  one  and  ended 
at  five.  Oh,  if  you  only  saw  the  place  lighted  up  and  heard 
the  music  ;  you  know  it  is  unlike  the  music  of  any  other  time 
of  the  year.  The  whole  object  of  the  finest  choir  in  the 
world  was  to  realize  Bethlehem  to  the  people's  mind. 
Consequently  the  matins,  lauds  and  Mass  were  a  succession  of 
the  most  delightful  simple  airs,  such  as  shepherds  would  sing 
to  a  little  child.  Then  the  choir  of  angels  was  also  repre- 
sented :  lovely  solos,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  song 
from  all  together  with  delightful  turns  and  thrills  like  the 
second  part  of  the  little  Irish  melody  '  How  dear  to  me  the 
hour.'  Oh,  I  was  so  happy,  and  so  sorry  when  it  was  all 
over.  Then  at  seven  I  said  my  three  masses  at  one  of  the 
seven  privileged  altars  of  St.  Peter's.  The  first  was  for  Dad, 
Mama,  Mary  and  B.  B.,  the  second  for  poor  Nano  and  the 
souls  of  the  faithful,  the  third  was  for  myself,  so  you  see  I 
was  on  that  blessed  morning  a  good  son,  a  good  brother 


FATHER  TOM   BURKE  75 

and  a  good  egoist,  and  now  I  am  a  good  trumpeter  of  my 
own  praise." 

In  the  Lent  of  1865  Father  Tom  Burke  sprang  into  his 
full  fame  as  a  preacher.  All  Rome  went  wild  about  him. 
The  church  where  he  preached  was  thronged  to  the  doors, 
the  intensity  of  interest  grew  at  each  successive  sermon, 
until  the  Pope  himself  declared  him  to  be  the  greatest  of 
Catholic  preachers,  and  the  loud  vibration  of  his  fame 
reached  to  his  own  land.  This  is  how  that  triumphant 
success  is  described  in  a  letter  to  his  sister  Bedilia,  written 
in  the  May  of  that  year  : 

"  The  preaching  is  all  over  for  the  year.  You  will  be  glad 
to  hear  that  on  the  whole  my  Lent  in  Rome  was  a  success.  I 
did  not  expect  it,  as  I  have  seen  other  and  far  cleverer  men  than 
I  am  break  down  and  fail  lamentably.  Besides,  my  coming 
after  such  a  man  as  the  Archbishop  of  Westminster,  Cardinal 
Manning,  was  an  ordeal.  But  God  was  good  to  me,  as  He 
always  is,  and  helped  me." 

But  all  this  is  a  bit  off  the  line  on  which  these  reminiscences 
are  intended  to  run.  I  set  out  to  write  about  Father  Tom 
only  as  a  humorist,  one  of  the  greatest  I  have  ever  known, 
and  I  have  been  betrayed  into  a  eulogy  of  the  preacher. 
Father  Tom  differed  essentially  from  Father  Healy,  though 
each  was  supreme  in  his  own  line.  Father  Healy  was  a  wit, 
Father  Tom  was  a  humorist.  The  one  excelled  in  flashing 
repartee,  the  other  in  admirable  mimicry  and  inimitable 
story-telling.  Father  Healy  loved  best  to  perform  in  a 
conversational  orchestra  where  he  always  played  first 
fiddle,  Father  Burke  was  essentially  a  soloist.  He  mono- 
polized the  conversation,  but  no  one  ever  complained  of  the 
monopoly. 

There  are  two  classes  of  humorists.  One  who  sits  at  the 
feast  of  humour  with  funereal  voice  and  aspect,  while  all 
round  him  the  table  is  in  a  roar.  The  other  who  laughs 
with  the  best,  fully  relishing  the  good  things  which  he  pro- 
vides. To  the  latter  order  Father  Tom  Burke  belonged,  and 
it  is  on  that  account  all  the  more  difficult  to  recapture  the 
humour  of  his  stories.  They  need,  for  full  enj  oyment ,  the  touch 
of  the  vanished  hand,  the  sound  of  the  voice  that  is  still. 


76       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

But  I  am  bound  to  attempt  it,  though  failure  be  inevitable. 
My  very  first  recollection  of  Father  Tom  is  at  a  dinner-party 
at  my  father's  house,  when  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
vagaries  of  memory  and  one  of  the  guests,  in  a  somewhat 
sentimental  fashion,  asked  Father  Tom  what  was  the 
earliest  recollection  of  his  childhood. 

"  I  remember,"  replied  Father  Tom  gravely,  "  when  I  was 
very  young,  I  think  I  was  about  six  months  and  four  days 
at  the  time,  I  cannot  be  sure  to  the  day,  but  I  remember 
I  was  lying  in  my  cradle  sucking  my  big  toe ;  it  was  a  habit  I 
had  at  the  time,  but  I  gave  it  up  as  I  grew  older.  My  mother 
carrie  in  and  chirruped  to  me,  but  I  took  no  notice  of  the 
woman  ;  then  she  went  and  put  seven  pence  in  coppers  on  the 
chimney-piece  and  left  the  room.  About  ten  minutes  later 
the  servantmaid  came  in.  She  looked  at  me  and  I  looked  at 
her,  but  she  did  not  seem  a  bit  afraid  of  me,  for  she  went  over 
to  the  chimney-piece  and  took  the  seven  pence  and  put  them 
in  her  pocket.  Well,  I  remember  distinctly  thinking,  as  soon 
as  I  am  able  to  talk  I  will  tell  my  mother  of  that  maid." 

Father  Burke  seldom  told  a  story  in  the  first  person, 
generally  the  imaginary  narrator  was  a  Galway  peasant 
whose  brogue  was  admirably  mimicked.  Here  is  the  version 
of  a  quaint  old  Irish  legend  which  I  heard  him  tell  at  a  big 
dinner-party  : 

"  A  big,  enormous  giant  got  wind  of  the  word  beyond  in 
Scotland  of  the  great  name,  Finn,  our  own  giant,  was  making 
for  himself  in  this  country.  The  Scotch  giant  was  mad  allout 
at  the  talk  that  was  going  on  all  around,  and  nothing  in  the 
world  would  please  him  but  to  come  over  and  fight  Finn. 
So  over  he  comes  on  the  Giant's  Causeway  up  in  the  north, 
all  as  one  of  ourselves  would  cross  a  river  on  stepping-stones, 
and  the  water  nowhere  above  his  knees. 

"  When  Finn  heard  of  his  coming  he  was  a  good  deal  dis- 
turbed in  his  mind,  for  the  Scotch  giant  was  five  or  six  times 
bigger  again  than  what  he  himself  was. 

"  '  I'm  off  for  a  day/  he  said  one  morning  bright  and 
early  to  his  wife. 

"  '  Ah,  then,  what  would  be  bringing  you  out  in  the  wet 
that  way  ?  '  said  his  wife. 


FATHER  TOM  BURKE  77 

"  '  Well,  I  heard  tell  there  is  a  big  omadhaun  of  a  Scotch 
giant  coming  over  to  fight  me  and  I'd  be  afeard  I'd  hurt  the 
crature,  seeing  as  what  he  is  weak  in  the  head  be  all  accounts.' 

"  His  wife  guessed  on  the  mortal  minute  what  was  up 
with  him,  but  she  never  let  on. 

"  '  Would  it  plaze  you,  astore,  to  frighten  him  back  to 
Scotland  again  all  the  way,  and  no  one  the  worse  of  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Could  it  be  done  ?  '  sez  Finn. 

"  '  If  you'll  be  led  be  me,'  sez  his  wife,  '  it's  aisy  to  do.' 

"  When  Finn  agreed  to  her  schame  she  dressed  him  up  in 
the  baby's  clothes  and  put  him  sleeping  in  the  bed  for  a 
baby.  Then  she  made  two  big  griddle  cakes  and  set  them 
to  bake  be  the  fire,  and  an  iron  griddle  within  in  the  middle 
of  one  of  them. 

"  She  had  hardly  done  her  work  when  who  comes  up  the 
hill  but  me  big  bould  Scotch  giant,  and  him  walking  like  an 
earthquake  and  a  big  tree  in  his  fist  that  he  pulled  up  for  a 
walking-stick.  When  he  put  his  head  in  at  the  half -door  it 
darkened  all  the  place. 

"  '  God  save  all  here,'  he  sez,  for  he  had  learned  that  much 
manners  anyways  since  he  had  come  to  Ireland. 

"  '  God  save  you  kindly,'  sez  Finn's  wife,  '  and  won't  you 
step  in,  me  good  man  ?  ' 

"  '  Is  the  master  of  the  house  within  ?  '  sez  the  Scotch 
giant. 

"  '  Then  he's  not,'  sez  Finn's  wife,  '  but  if  you  step  in  and 
wait  for  him  he  won't  be  very  long  now.' 

"  '  I've  come  over  from  Scotland  to  fight  him,'  sez  the 
other,  very  determined  like. 

"  '  Faix,  an'  it's  welcome  you  are,'  sez  Finn's  wife,  letting  on 
she  was  delighted  with  the  news.  '  Draw  down  the  child's 
stool  then,  and  have  an  air  of  the  fire  while  you  are  waiting. 
Himsel'  will  be  delighted  to  meet  you  ;  we  had  word  of  your 
comin',  and  it  was  only  yesterday  he  was  sayin'  to  me  he 
would  be  rather  baitin'  you  than  aitin'  the  best  dinner  that 
ever  was  cooked.' 

"  The  Scotch  giant  wasn't  mightily  pleased  at  that,  but 
Finn  in  the  cradle  within  began  laughin'  fit  to  break  his 
sides. 


78       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  '  What's  that,  what's  that  ?  '  sez  the  Scotch  giant, 
jumping  up  at  the  quare  sound. 

"  '  That,'  sez  Finn's  wife,  as  she  med  for  the  cradle,  '  sure, 
that's  the  baby  cryin',  and  me  heart's  scalded  tryin'  to  plaze 
him.' 

"  '  He's  a  fine-grown  child,'  sez  the  Scotch  giant  when  he 
seen  the  big  head  of  Finn  stickin'  out  from  under  the 
blankets. 

"  '  Fine  enagh,'  sez  Finn's  wife ;   '  musha,  go  long  out 
of  that  with  you,  sure  it's  humbuggin'  me  you  are  to  call 
that  little  grow-badly  the  like.     Sure,  Tom  Thumb  is  the 
name  Finn  has  on  the  weeshy,  pernickerty  little  cratereen.' 
"  Bedad,  this  took  a  terrible  rise  out  of  the  Scotch  giant, 
thinkin'  to  himself  what  the  father  must  be  like  at  all  at  all. 
He  jumped  up  at  once  from  his  stool. 
"  '  I  must  be  goin','  sez  he. 
"  '  An'  why  ?  '  sez  she. 
"  '  I'm  in  a  hurry,'  sez  he. 

'  Wait  till  your  hurry  is  over,'  sez  she. 
"  '  I  can't,'  sez  he.    '  You'll  excuse  me  to  your  husband, 
ma'am,'  sez  he  as  polite  as  you  plaze. 

"  '  You'll  have  a  bit  and  sup,'  sez  she,  '  after  your  long 
walk  ?  ' 

"  '  I  haven't  the  time,'  sez  he. 

'"Sure,  you  wouldn't  bring  the  curse  of  the  house  on  you, 
goin'  off  that  ways ;  the  cake  is  ready  there  be  the  fire,  and 
it's  time  to  feed  the  child,  anyways.' 

"  With  that  she  took  up  the  two  griddle  cakes  that  were 
bakin'  be  the  fire  and  gave  one  of  them  to  Finn  in  the  cradle, 
who  began  munchin'  it  out  of  face,  and  the  other  with  the 
iron  griddle  in  it  she  gave  to  the  Scotch  giant. 

"  The  Scotch  giant  thought  it  quare  food  for  a  baby,  and  he 
was  in  greater  haste  than  ever  to  be  off  before  the  father 
would  be  back. 

"  In  his  hurry  he  took  a  hard  bite  at  the  cake.  Then  he 
let  a  roar  out  of  him  that  near  took  the  roof  off  the  house, 
for  three  of  his  best  teeth  cracked  off  on  the  griddle. 

"  '  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? '  sez  Finn's  wife,  as  inno- 
cent as  you  plaze ;  '  don't  you  like  your  cake,  me  good  man? ' 


FATHER  TOM   BURKE  79 

"  But  the  Scotch  giant  never  answered  her  yis,  aye  or  no, 
but  tore  out  of  the  house  roarin'  meelia  murder,  and  back 
with  him  hot  foot  over  the  Causeway  to  his  own  country." 

"  That,"  concluded  Father  Tom  triumphantly,  "  was  how 
Finn  bate  the  big  Scotch  giant." 

"  Bravo,  Finn  !  "  shouted  an  enthusiastic  guest. 

"  It  wasn't  Finn  that  won  that  battle,"  said  the  Bishop 
of  Canea,  who  happened  to  be  present  on  the  occasion,  "  it 
was  Finnesse." 

Father  Tom  always  declared  he  heard  this  story  just  as  he 
told  it  from  a  peasant  at  a  cabin  fireside  in  Galway. 

Here  is  another  fireside  tale  : — 

"  Father  Pat,"  said  Darby  Fahy,  and  he  took  dudeen  from 
his  mouth  to  say  it,  "  was  always  a  good  warrant  to  do  a 
good  turn  to  any  poor  soul  that  wanted  it,  so  when  he  saw 
ould  Bridget  Moloney  and  her  heavy  basket  tryin'  to  get 
through  the  narrow  stile  together,  he  held  the  basket  for 
her  till  she  got  through. 

"  '  Then  what  have  you  in  the  basket,  Mrs.  Moloney  ?  ' 
sez  his  reverence. 

"  '  Crubeens,  your  reverence,'  sez  Mrs.  Moloney. 

"  '  And  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  the  crubeens  ?  ' 

"  '  Ate  them,  your  reverence,  of  course.' 

"  '  Then  where  did  you  get  the  crubeens,  Mrs.  Moloney  ?  ' 
sez  his  reverence  again. 

"  '  Beyand,  in  the  town  beyand,  your  reverence.  I  sould 
a  goose  and  I  bought  crubeens  with  the  money  I  got  for  her.' 

"  '  Then  that  was  a  quare  thing  to  do,  Mrs.  Moloney,'  sez 
his  reverence.  '  A  goose  is  better  aitin'  than  crubeens  any 
day.' 

"  '  Faix,  it's  easy  seen  you  did  not  know  that  goose,  your 
reverence.' 

"  '  And  how  long  did  you  know  her,  Mrs.  Moloney  ?  ' 

"  To  tell  your  reverence  no  lie  I  met  her  for  the  first 
time  the  day  I  was  married,  and  she  was  an  ould  goose 
then.'  " 

A  familiar  topic  of  the  everyday  humorist  gets  a  new 
twist  in  the  following  story  of  Father  Tom's  : — 

"  Pat  Fahy,  me  brother,  was  goin'  down  the  road  fair  and 


8o       RECOLLECTIONS   OF   AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

aisy  to  his  work  when  he  saw  in  a  field,  within  a  bit  from  him, 
a  girl  milkin'  a  cow,  and  an  ould  cow  be  the  look  of  her. 
Pat  was  in  no  hurry,  so  he  stopped  awhile  smokin'  his  pipe 
lookin'  over  the  fence.  Then  all  of  a  suddin  a  bull  comes 
rampagin'  out  of  another  field  straight  at  the  colleen. 

"  Pat  roared  meelia  murder,  and  the  girl  looked  round  for 
a  minute,  then,  if  you'll  believe  me,  she  went  on  milkin'  the 
cow  quiet  as  ever. 

"  But  there  was  a  quarer  thing  than  that  happened. 
When  the  rampagin'  bull  was  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
girl,  he  stopped  short,  let  down  his  tail  that  he  had 
cocked  up,  faced  right  round  and  ran  like  a  red  shank  from 
the  field. 

"  It  was  no  wonder  that  Pat  was  surprised  and  wanted  to 
know  the  rights  of  the  story,  so  he  crossed  into  the  field  and 
spoke  to  the  girl,  who  went  on  milkin'  as  if  nothin'  had 
happened. 

"  '  Did  you  hear  me  roarin'  at  you  ?  '  he  said. 

"  '  Tisn't  deaf  I  am.' 

"  '  And  you  seen  the  bull  ?  ' 

"  '  Of  course  I  did,  why  not  ?  ' 

"  '  And  weren't  you  afeard  ?  ' 

"  '  Not  the  laste  taste  in  the  world  ;  sure,  it  was  the  bull 
that  was  afeard.' 

"  '  Then  why  should  the  bull  be  afeard  ?  ' 

"  '  I  was  milkin'  his  mother-in-law.'  " 

Here  is  another  favourite  story  of  his  : — 

"  Quare  things  happen  in  the  country  sometimes,"  said 
Darby  Fahy.  "  An  ould  maid  was  goin'  down  to  the  West 
of  Ireland,  and  she  had  with  her  a  rale  beautiful  parrot  in  a 
cage.  Somehow  the  cage  got  open  and  the  parrot  flew  off 
with  himself  into  the  wilds  of  Connemara,  where  the  like  was 
never  seen  before.  He  lit  down  on  a  gate,  and  within  in  the 
field  there  was  an  old  man  diggin'  potatoes. 

"  When  the  decent  man  saw  the  parrot  sittin'  there  all 
colours  of  the  rainbow,  he  stuck  his  spade  in  the  head  of  a 
ridge  and  came  over  to  have  a  good  look  at  him. 

"  While  the  man  was  starin'  as  if  the  eyes  would  jump 
out  of  his  head,  all  of  a  suddin  the  parrot  calls  out  : 


FATHER  TOM  BURKE  81 

"  '  Pretty  Poll,  fine  day,  fine  day.' 

"  With  that  the  man  takes  off  his  hat  as  polite  as  you 
plaze. 

"  '  I  humbly  beg  your  honour's  pardon/  he  said,  '  faix,  I 
thought  you  were  some  kind  of  a  bird.'  " 

We  are  not  always  grateful  to  the  man  who  can  "  gie  us 
to  see  oursels  as  others  see  us."  Father  Tom  was  a  super- 
lative mimic  from  whom  no  one  was  safe. 

The  late  Cardinal  Cullen,  one  day  at  a  big  dinner,  good- 
humouredly  taxed  the  great  Dominican  with  having 
mimicked  a  prince  of  the  Church. 

"  Does  your  Eminence  believe  I  would  be  guilty  of  such 
a  sacrilege  ?  "  expostulated  Father  Tom. 

"  I  know  it,"  retorted  the  Cardinal,  "  and  as  a  penance  I 
order  you  to  get  up  and  repeat  the  performance  here  and 
now." 

Father  Tom,  with  many  protestations,  complied.  The 
imitation  was  perfect,  every  little  peculiarity  of  voice  and 
manner  was  reproduced.  The  guests  shouted  with  laughter 
and  delight.  But  in  three  minutes  the  Cardinal  had  had 
quite  enough  of  it. 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  he  cried  testily,  "  sit  down  at  once  !  " 

A  little  later  the  Cardinal  had  his  revenge.  Father  Tom, 
coming  up  from  Queenstown,  encountered  in  the  railway 
carriage  a  bishop,  who  had  just  crossed  over  from  America. 
They  speedily  got  to  be  good  friends,  and  on  the  way  up 
Father  Tom  obligingly  showed  him,  through  the  carriage 
window,  all  the  beauties  of  Ireland,  with  which,  it  may  be 
added,  the  good  bishop  was  not  a  little  disappointed.  Next 
day  the  bishop  dined  with  Cardinal  Cullen,  and  expressed 
his  disappointment  with  Ireland. 

"  But  you  have  seen  nothing  of  Ireland  yet,"  said  the 
Cardinal. 

"  I  have  seen  all  I  wanted  to  see,"  retorted  the  bishop 
proudly. 

"  The  Lakes  of  Killarney  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  them." 

"  The  Giant's  Causeway  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  it." 


'  The  Rock  of  Cashel,  Croagh  Patrick,  Glendalough  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  them  all." 

"  But  how  ?  "  asked  the  bewildered  Cardinal.  "  I  thought 
you  said  you  had  only  just  come  across  ?  " 

"  I  arrived  in  Queenstown  yesterday,"  replied  the  bishop. 
"  A  most  agreeable  clergyman  showed  me  all  those  places 
through  the  window  of  the  carriage  as  we  travelled  up 
together  to  Dublin." 

A  light  broke  in  on  Cardinal  Cullen.  "  That's  Father  Tom 
Burke's  doing,"  he  cried,  "  as  sure  as  fate."  He  explained 
to  the  bishop  he  had  been  made  the  victim  of  the  famous 
Dominican.  "  I  will  have  him  to  dinner  to-morrow,"  he 
added,  "  and  you  can  have  it  out  with  him." 

A  man  who  was  present  told  me  that  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  saw  Father  Tom  Burke  embarrassed  when  he  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  bishop  whom  he  had  hum- 
bugged so  shamelessly.  But  his  embarrassment  lasted  only 
three  seconds,  and  before  the  dinner  was  half  over  he  and 
the  bishop  were  fast  friends.  When  later  Father  Tom 
visited  America  on  his  successful  mission  of  refuting  Froude's 
attack  on  the  Catholic  Church  and  the  Irish  people,  there 
was  no  one  from  whom  he  had  a  warmer  welcome  than  from 
the  victimized  prelate. 


CHAPTER  IX 
CALLED  TO   THE   BAR 

Dinners  in  London — The  "Temple  Forum" — Irreligious  Hindoos — An 
inhospitable  host — A  startling  translation — The  law  library — On  the 
hazard — The  dissipated  Four  Courts  clock — An  explosive  jest — An 
audacious  robbery — A  highwayman's  lawsuit. 

THROUGH  all  the  hindering  work,  variety  and  fascina- 
tion of  the  Press  I  still  continued  to  make  my  way, 
slowly  but  surely,  to  my  ultimate  goal — the  Bar.  I  attended 
law  lectures  and  debating  society,  passed  examinations  and 
ate  dinners  in  Dublin  and  London.  The  dinners  at  one  of 
the  London  Inns  of  Court,  which  in  my  day  were  an  absolute 
essential  (since  abolished)  to  a  call  to  the  Irish  Bar,  were  a 
costly  farce.  No  word  of  law  was  ever  mentioned  at  those 
dinners  ;  "to  talk  shop  "  was  considered  the  worst  of  bad 
form  by  the  students.  It  is  strange  enough  that  eating 
dinners  even  in  Dublin  should  be  insisted  on,  but  that  Irish 
law  students  should  be  compelled  to  eat  dinners  in  London 
was  wholly  preposterous.  The  notion  was,  I  presume,  that 
Irish  savages  should  be  mollified  by  some  intercourse  with 
a  superior  race. 

But  though  the  parents  who  paid  the  piper  protested 
against  the  London  dinners,  they  were  regarded  as  a  good 
spree  by  Irish  students.  It  was  my  habit,  with  a  few  con- 
genial friends,  to  frequent  those  quaint  public-house  debating 
societies  in  London,  and  whatever  might  be  the  subject  on 
the  notice  paper,  we  turned  it  on  to  Ireland.  I  remember 
with  pride  we  carried  a  vote  in  favour  of  Home  Rule  in  the 
"  Temple  Forum  "  twenty  years  before  it  was  carried  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

83 


84       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

We  were  an  impecunious  race,  we  Irish  students,  and  the 
half-crown  dinner  provided  at  the  Middle  Temple  was  to  us  a 
banquet  of  the  gods.  The  half-pint  of  wine  was  a  special 
attraction.  A  friend  who  was  keeping  terms  with  me 
laboriously  arranged  that  we  should  have  four  Indian 
students  at  our  table  of  six.  His  notion  was  that,  as  their 
religion  forbade  them  the  use  of  wine,  we  should  have  as 
compensation  for  their  company  their  share  and  our  own. 
To  his  intense  disgust  the  mild  Hindoos  took  to  their  wine 
as  a  cat  to  cream.  Afterwards  he  professed  himself  shocked 
at  the  lack  of  respect  they  displayed  even  for  the  teaching 
of  "  their  own  confounded  false  religion." 

Only  the  other  day  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
Irish  judges  reminded  me  of  a  somewhat  embarrassing 
experience  that  overtook  us  when  we  were  keeping  terms  in 
London.  We  were  dining  together  at  a  cheap  eating-house 
kept  by  an  Italian  at  which  we  got  a  plate  of  meat  for  a 
shilling,  and  I  had  made  some  way  with  my  dinner  when  I 
noticed  that  the  meat  was  high.  I  spoke  to  my  companion, 
whose  experience  up  to  that  had  been  more  fortunate  than 
mine,  and  he  went  on  eating.  But  a  moment  later  he  got  a 
very  full-flavoured  morsel  into  his  mouth. 

Thereupon  we  held  a  consultation.  Shillings  were  of 
consequence  to  us  in  those  days,  so  we  nervously  appealed 
to  the  waiter  to  get  us  something  instead  of  the  uneatable 
meat.  The  waiter  referred  us  to  the  proprietor.  The 
proprietor  heard  our  appeal  to  the  end  in  grim  silence. 
Then  he  spoke  : 

"  It  often  happens,"  he  said,  "  that  people  come  to  my 
place  and  call  for  dinner ;  when  they  have  half  eaten  they 
send  for  me  and  tell  me  it  is  bad  and  make  demand  to  send 
something  else,  but  I — I  send  for  the  police." 

In  due  course  I  passed  my  final  examination  and  was  called 
to  the  Bar.  There  were  fifteen  competitors  and  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  get  "  placed,"  missing  the  second  prize  by 
only  a  few  marks.  I  was  even  more  surprised  than  pleased 
by  the  result,  as  I  had  no  time  to  go  into  training,  being 
engaged  in  Press  work  up  to  the  day  of  the  examination. 

My  transition  from  the  Press  to  the  Bar  was  a  curious 


CALLED  TO  THE  BAR  85 

experience.  It  was  at  first  a  transition  from  excessive 
industry  to  absolute  idleness.  I  took  apartments  in  one 
of  the  big  old-fashioned  houses  in  Henrietta  Street,  once  the 
residence  of  Lord  Mount  joy,  donned  my  brand-new  wig  and 
gown,  hung  about  the  Four  Courts  and  waited.  I  had 
passed  a  good  examination  in  the  principle  of  law,  but  I  was 
in  blank  ignorance  of  the  practice. 

The  great  Palace  of  Justice,  called  the  "Four  Courts," 
stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Liffey  with  a  huge  dome 
pushing  skywards  and  a  huge  central  hall  under  the  dome. 

There  are  always  more  barristers  than  briefs  about  the 
Four  Courts.  When  the  legal  tyro  has  put  on  the  wig  and 
gown  it  is  for  the  solicitors  to  put  something  into  his  brief 
bag.  Meanwhile  he  stays  its  stomach  with  books  and 
newspapers,  preserving  a  decent  corpulency,  and  waits  his 
chance ;  but  then  he  has  a  good  time  on  the  whole  while  he 
is  waiting. 

The  popular  picture  of  the  briefless  barrister  conscious  of 
his  own  neglected  genius,  eating  his  heart  out  in  moody 
impatience,  is  all  a  mistake.  As  a  rule  he  has  a  much  more 
modest  and  accurate  estimate  of  his  own  powers,  and  a  very 
wholesome  terror  of  the  first  brief.  So  he  bides  his  time 
good-humouredly,  and  is  lucky  enough  to  have  the  Four 
Courts  Library  to  hide  in. 

The  Four  Courts  law  library  deserves  a  word  of  special 
description.  The  English  barrister,  I  understand,  keeps  to 
his  chambers,  and  when  (if  ever)  the  solicitor  arrives  with  the 
brief  he  is  interviewed  by  the  barrister's  clerk.  The  Irish 
barrister  has  no  chambers  and  no  clerk  ;  he  camps  out  in  the 
law  library,  which  is,  in  fact,  the  fair  or  market  where 
barristers  are  hired. 

Business  or  no  business,  he  daily  robes  himself  in  full 
legal  toggery,  climbs  a  flight  of  stairs  to  the  law  library, 
and  takes  his  place  very  literally  like  a  cabman  on  his  hazard, 
waiting  for  a  fare. 

Close  to  the  entrance  sat  a  big  man  with  a  big  voice.  I 
never  heard  elsewhere  a  voice  of  such  smoothness  and 
volume.  Whether  he  was  specially  chosen  for  this  accom- 
plishment I  cannot  say,  or  how  the  competitive  examination 


86       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

was  conducted.  But  certainly  it  is  the  one  essential  accom- 
plishment for  his  post.  When  any  barrister  is  wanted  by  a 
solicitor  for  instruction,  courts  or  consultation,  this  stentor 
was  appealed  to. 

Forthwith  he  sent  a  name  thundering  through  the  utmost 
recesses  of  the  library.  The  call,  pleasantly  suggestive  of 
briefs  and  fees,  brought  the  barrister  hurrying  to  the  door. 

The  library  is  sacred  to  barristers  :  not  even  solicitors  can 
pass  its  portals.  But  now  and  again  ladies  flit  through  this 
gloomy  temple  of  law,  gazing  at  the  crowd  of  men  in  strange 
costume  bent  over  big  books  or  broad  papers,  with  the  same 
kind  of  timid  curiosity  that  one  regards  the  animals  feeding 
in  the  Zoo. 

Apart  from  its  legal  advantages  the  library  is  a  wonderful 
place  for  social  and  political  anecdote  and  gossip.  I  trust 
some  of  the  stories  I  have  presently  to  tell  will  not  belie  its 
reputation.  A  pleasant  atmosphere  of  social  equality  and 
kindliness  pervades  the  place.  The  veriest  tyro  can  appeal 
in  his  perplexities  to  the  most  eminent  leader  with  the 
perfect  certainty  of  courteous  and  kindly  assistance. 

Some  men  display  in  the  library  a  power  of  concentrated 
attention  that  is  little  short  of  miraculous.  Amid  the  babble 
of  constant  conversation,  amid  the  incessant  and  stentorian 
shouting  of  names,  those  men  work  as  composedly  as  in  their 
own  silent  studies,  track  an  intricate  line  of  argument  from 
authority  to  authority,  or  draft  a  complicated  deed  in  which 
a  slip  might  mean  to  the  client  the  forfeiture  of  an  estate. 

But  even  to  the  busiest  men  there  are  moments  of  re- 
laxation in  the  library,  while  to  the  idle  men  it  is  all  relaxa- 
tion. There  are  always  in  winter-time  groups  gathered 
round  the  fires,  and  there  good  stories  go  the  rounds  with  hit 
and  parry  and  counter  of  lively  repartee.  No  one  is  safe 
and  no  one  is  hurt.  A  frank  comradeship  and  good-humour 
that  makes  offence  impossible  is  the  very  life  of  the  place. 
It  was  a  mistake  to  call  the  House  of  Commons  the  best 
club  in  Europe.  It  is  only  the  second  best.  The  Irish 
law  library  is  the  best :  I  have  been  for  some  time  a  member 
of  both  and  ought  to  know. 

It  is  not,  as  has  been  said,  the  idle  men  exclusively  that 


CALLED  TO  THE  BAR  87 

crowd  round  the  library  fires.  It  is  a  kind  of  sanctuary  for 
the  Bar  leaders  pursued  by  rival  solicitors.  On  one  occasion 
the  most  brilliant  of  Irish  advocates,  afterwards  the  most 
brilliant  of  Irish  judges,  the  late  Lord  Justice  FitzGibbon, 
was  idling  pleasantly  in  the  midst  of  a  gossiping  group, 
where  his  laugh  was  the  liveliest  and  his  story  the  best. 

In  the  courts  below  half  a  dozen  jury  cases  were  in  full 
swing.  A  man  coming  up  from  the  courts  was  amazed  to 
see  the  Nisi  Prius  leader  idling  at  the  library  fire. 

"  Halloa,  FitzGibbon,"  he  cried,  "how  is  it  you  are  not 
engaged  in  any  of  the  cases  that  are  on  to-day  ?  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  was  the  calm  reply,  "  I  am  in  all  of 
them,  and  I  like  to  be  impartial." 

Only  once  in  my  experience  or,  I  believe,  in  the  experience 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  has  the  equanimity  of  the  library 
been  rudely  disturbed.  There  was  a  junior  barrister,  son  of 
the  late  Judge  Keogh,  who  in  spite  of  occasional  eccen- 
tricities was  treated  with  indulgent  consideration  by  his 
colleagues.  He  was  clever  too,  and  his  sense  of  humour  had 
a  knack  of  breaking  out  in  startling  and  unexpected  places. 

In  the  centre  of  the  circle  of  fun  and  gossip  round  the 
library  fire,  he  stood  abstractedly  tossing  a  small  parcel 
wrapped  in  brown  paper  from  his  right  hand  to  his  left. 
The  motion  naturally  attracted  attention. 

"  What's  that  you've  got  there  ?  "  he  was  casually  asked. 

"  What  a  marvellous  thing  is  modern  science  !  "  was  the 
apparently  irrelevant  reply. 

"  What  the  deuce  has  modern  science  to  say  to  it  ?  " 

"  You  see  this  little  parcel,"  he  showed  it  for  a  moment ; 
"  only  think  what  mighty  forces  modern  science  has  stored 
up  in  this  little  handful  of  matter.  It  is  dynamite.  If  I 
were  to  drop  this  little  parcel  out  of  my  hand  on  the  hearth- 
stone " — he  began  tossing  it  again  and  fumbled  in  his 
catch — "  it  would  blow  the  library  and  all  that  are  in  it 
to  smithereens." 

Thereupon  there  was  a  sudden  exodus  from  the  library 
like  black  ants  from  the  hill  when  you  drive  a  spade  in. 

With  a  wild  shout  of  laughter  that  quickened  their  speed 
he  dropped  his  parcel  on  the  hearth. 


88       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

Nothing  happened ! 

Returning  cautiously  the  intimidated  barristers  found  a 
small  ink  bottle,  wrapped  in  brown  paper  and  quite  empty. 

In  its  Central  Hall  the  Four  Courts  has  an  institution  in 
its  way  as  remarkable  as  the  library.  It  is  here  that  the 
profession  and  the  public  meet  and  mingle.  This  hall  is 
a  huge  drum-shaped  building ;  stone-walled  and  stone- 
floored,  with  courts  opening  from  its  sides  and  circular 
corridors  running  giddily  round  the  high  glass  dome  which 
makes  one  dizzy  to  look  up  at  from  the  floor. 

It  is  here  the  judges  parade  at  the  opening  of  term  in  full 
judicial  toggery,  self-conscious,  blazing  with  scarlet  and 
gold,  and  to  the  irreverent  suggestive  of  a  circus  procession. 
It  is  here  that  the  famous  leaders  of  the  profession  are  on 
view,  rushing  frantically  across  from  court  to  court,  to 
address  a  jury  here,  to  cross-examine  a  witness  there,  each 
with  a  big  brief  bag  under  his  arm  and  a  tail  of  flustered 
solicitors.  It  is  here,  too,  the  crowds  come  on  great 
occasions,  when  some  exciting  political  trial  is  in  progress, 
to  wait  for  the  verdict.  I  have  seen  the  hall  a  circular 
sea  of  heads :  I  have  heard  its  walls  shaken  with  exultant 
cheers. 

Round  the  great  circle  are  arranged  marble  statues  of  the 
leaders  who  in  other  days  bustled  about  the  hall.  Some  of 
these  are  works  of  art ;  others  not :  the  latter  are 
the  most  interesting.  You  can  see  works  of  art  in  any 
good  gallery.  But  there  is  a  statue  of  the  great  advocate, 
Whiteside,  in  the  hall  of  the  Four  Courts,  of  which  the 
like  is  to  be  found  nowhere  else  in  the  world,  a  statue 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  ;  a  tailor's  block  in  white 
marble. 

There  used  to  be  a  colossal  figure  of  Justice  in  the  centre 
of  the  hall.  But  her  scales  got  broken  and  the  malicious 
sneered  and  sniggered.  So  to  "  prevent  observation  "  the 
Benchers  had  the  poor  maimed  Justice  removed  to  the 
quiet  gardens  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  where  nursery-maids 
and  children  stroll  and  play.  The  Four  Courts,  they  say, 
got  on  very  well  without  her. 

But  the  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  hall  in  the  old 


CALLED  TO  THE  BAR  89 

days,  and  the  most  interesting,  was  the  clock  :  a  huge  clock 
with  a  great  brazen  face  that  fronted  the  entrance  and 
misled  all  comers  regarding  the  time.  They  have  got  a  new 
clock  there  now,  a  respectable,  commonplace,  well-conducted 
clock,  wholly  devoid  of  interest  or  excitement. 

But  some  years  ago  the  Four  Courts  clock  was  famous 
for  its  eccentricity ;  a  rollicking,  dare-devil  clock  that 
went  or  stopped  at  its  own  sweet  will,  and  kept  the  most 
irregular  hours.  At  times  it  went  so  fast  that  it  ran  into 
the  middle  of  next  week  before  it  could  be  brought  up. 
Then  it  suffered  from  reaction  and  went  slow,  simply 
sauntered  along,  lagging  days  behind  the  times. 

The  Four  Courts  clock  grew  to  be  a  synonym  in 
Dublin  for  loose  living.  To  go  like  the  Four  Courts  clock 
was  to  go  to  the  dogs. 

Snarling  critics,  indeed,  declared  the  clock  typical  of  the 
place,  and  one  morning  the  following  lines  were  found 
chalked  under  it  in  huge  letters  on  the  wall,  by  a  disappointed 
suitor,  as  was  supposed,  for  the  authorship  was  never 
claimed  : — 

The  Four  Courts  Hall  a  clock  displays 

Of  a  portentous  size, 
That  Justice  and  its  devious  ways 

Most  fitly  typifies. 

Of  wheels  in  wheels  it  has  a  lot. 

And  weights  that  hang  below, 
It  always  strikes  when  it  should  not, 

And  stops  when  it  should  go. 

Its  face  conveys  a  pleasing  doubt 

To  lawyers  ever  dear, 
Its  hands,  like  judges,  go  about 

Two  circuits  in  a  year. 

And  finally,  to  make  it  show 

Analogy  most  strong, 
It's  very  often  very  slow, 

And  almost  always  wrong. 

This  unconscionable  and  incorrigible  clock  that  could 
not  tell  the  truth,  even  by  accident,  made  a  bad  end.  Its 
story  might  be  worked  up  into  a  most  improving  children's 
book,  one  of  the  series  of  "  Nursery  Nightmares,"  with  a 


go       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

blood-curdling  moral  tacked  on  as  a  terrible  example  to 
juvenile  delinquents. 

I  am  indeed  at  a  loss  for  a  technical  word  to  describe  the 
crime  of  which  the  poor  easy-going  clock  was  ultimately 
the  victim.  It  was  certainly  not  petty  larceny,  nor  was  it 
highway  robbery,  nor  burglary,  nor  obtaining  goods  under 
false  pretences,  though  it  partook  of  the  nature  of  all  these 
offences.  It  was  a  crime  sui  generis,  without  precedent  or 
parallel,  never  before  accomplished  and  never  likely  to  be 
repeated. 

It  will  be  no  matter  for  surprise  that  a  clock  that  turned 
day  into  night  and  night  into  day,  and  totally  neglected  its 
regular  exercise,  was  constantly  in  the  hands  of  a  clock 
doctor.  It  made  frequent  excursions  to  the  most  approved 
health  resorts  in  the  city,  all  without  avail. 

One  day  at  noon,  when  business  was  at  its  briskest  in  the 
Four  Courts,  and  the  hall  was  thronged  with  pushing 
barristers  and  staring  spectators,  a  huge  van  with  long 
ladders  on  it  drew  up  at  the  main  entrance.  A  crowd  of 
workmen  in  shirt-sleeves  and  paper  caps  shoved  and 
shouldered  their  way  across  the  hall  to  the  clock.  The 
ladders  were  set  and  the  clock  was  slowly  lowered,  the 
crowd  languidly  watching  the  proceeding,  believing  the 
Board  of  Works  was  implicated.  The  workmen  staggered 
across  the  hall  with  the  huge  weight  and  hoisted  it  on  to  the 
van.  With  much  cracking  of  whip  and  sliding  of  iron-shod 
hoofs  on  the  slippery  pavement  the  van  and  its  load  got 
into  motion,  and  the  famous  Four  Courts  clock  disappeared 
— for  ever. 

It  vanished  as  quietly  and  completely  as  a  drop  of  water 
that  falls  into  the  ocean.  Everyone,  of  course,  at  first 
assumed  an  authorized  removal.  A  week  passed  and  a 
fortnight,  and  there  was  still  a  huge  circular  hole  in  the 
high  wall  where  the  clock  had  been.  At  last  some  careless 
inquiry  was  started.  Question  led  to  question,  and  it  was 
finally  discovered  that  no  one  knew  anything  of  the  clock  ; 
no  one  had  directed  its  removal ;  no  one  had  the  least 
knowledge  of  its  ravishers  or  their  whereabouts.  Belated 
inquiry  never  got  upon  the  track.  The  clock  had  dis- 


FRANK  MCDONOUGH,  Q.C. 


p.  90 


CALLED  TO  THE  BAR  91 

appeared  "  like  water  spilt  upon  the  plain,  not  to  be  gathered 
up  again,"  and  to  the  present  hour  no  light  has  fallen  on  the 
mystery  of  its  disappearance. 

It  seems  a  little  curious  at  first  sight  why  law  and  levity 
should  go  so  often  together.  Yet  it  is  so.  For  all  its  prim 
formality  there  is  a  good  deal  of  dry  humour,  conscious  or 
unconscious,  about  the  law.  Its  very  incongruity  is  amusing. 
It  is  a  sharp-eyed  business  man  masquerading  in  a  costume 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  For  law  can  never  shake  itself  clear  of 
the  grotesque,  worn-out  trappings  of  tradition. 

The  legal  profession  is  the  most  conservative  of  the 
professions,  unchanging  and  unchangeable  as  the  Sphinx  (to 
whom,  by  the  way,  it  bears  an  additional  resemblance  in  its 
talent  for  unanswerable  conundrums).  Beneath  its  por- 
tentous wig  of  bristling  horsehair  it  frowns  reprovingly  on 
innovation.  The  motto  of  the  genuine  lawyers  has  ever 
been  "  Nolimus  Mutare."  If  they  had  their  way  then, 
indeed — 

What  custom  bids  in  all  things  we  should  do, 
The  rust  of  antique  time  would  lie  unswept, 
And  mountainous  error  be  too  highly  piled, 
For  truth  to  overpeer. 

Now  and  again,  indeed,  the  legislation  comes  with  a 
broom  to  sweep  the  cobwebs  out  of  some  corner  of  the 
forensic  firmament.  But  the  legal  spiders  are  immediately 
at  work,  and  soon  have  the  corner  comfortably  and  closely 
curtained  again.  The  law  of  England  has  kept  "  broadening 
down  from  precedent  to  precedent,"  until  at  the  present 
day  it  is  spread  out  into  a  wide  maze  of  inexplicable  con- 
tradiction and  confusion.  It  adopts  some  old  rule — absurd, 
perhaps,  when  it  was  first  created,  certainly  inapplicable 
to  our  day,  and  oblivious  of  ridicule  the  law  follows  this  rule 
to  every  extremity  of  injustice  or  absurdity.  At  best,  it 
seeks  to  evade  its  authority  by  subterfuge  or  fiction.  It 
never  thinks  of  knocking  the  tyrant  down  and  walking 
straight  forward  over  its  prostrate  body. 

The  result  is  confusion  to  lawyers  and  disaster  to  litigants, 
and  to  onlookers  innocent  amusement.  A  wise  old  lawyer, 
Frank  McDonagh,  Q.C.,  was  looking  over  my  shoulder  as  I 


92       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

was  engaged  in  writing  my  first  opinion  on  some  apparently 
simple  question.  He  ran  his  pen  through  the  word 
"  clearly."  "  I  am  clearly  of  opinion,"  I  began. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  he  said,  "  never  write  you  are 
'  clearly  '  of  opinion  on  any  question  of  law.  When  you 
have  my  years  and  experience  the  question  you  will  always 
have  to  determine  is  on  which  side  the  doubt  predominates." 

To  the  novice,  indeed,  the  study  of  the  law  is  utter 
bewilderment.  "  Case  law,"  as  the  lawyers  call  it,  is  a  maze 
without  a  clue.  In  the  law  library  of  Dublin  there  are  tens 
of  thousands  of  volumes  in  any  one  of  which  may  lurk  the 
decision  governing  the  matter  in  hand.  With  grim  humour 
the  law  assumes  that  everyone  knows  it  and  punishes  the 
ignorant  equally  with  the  guilty. 

On  this  legal  treadmill  I  laboured  hopelessly  during  the 
first  year  after  my  call  to  the  Bar, 

Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances. 

Yet  the  study  was  not  wholly  without  compensation. 

In  the  Law  Reports  are  to  be  found  occasionally  jests  as 
good  as  the  best  of  the  much-maligned  Joe  Miller.  It  is, 
for  example,  gravely  recorded — these  eyes  have  read  it — 
in  one  quaint  old  volume  of  Law  Reports  how  two  highway- 
men fell  out  over  the  division  of  spoils,  and  one  brought  a 
partnership  suit  in  an  Equity  Court  against  the  other. 

The  pleadings  were  all  in  regular  form  :  "  the  trading 
partnership  "  was  fully  set  out ;  "  the  stock  in  trade," 
consisting  of  "  masks,  horses,  swords,  pistols,  blunder- 
busses," was  regularly  scheduled. 

"  The  said  partners  as  aforesaid,"  so  runs  the  pleading, 
"  to  wit  the  plaintiff  and  defendant  regularly  traded  at 
Hounslow  Heath,  and  at  divers  other  highways,  heaths  and 
commons  of  the  realm  and  elsewhere,  in  purses,  watches, 
snuff-boxes,  jewels  and  other  articles  of  value,  and  by  means 
of  such  trading  acquired  a  large  number  of  said  purses, 
watches,  snuff-boxes,  jewels  and  other  articles  of  value  as 
aforesaid.  But  the  said  defendant  refused,  and  still  neglects 
and  refuses  to  account  to  the  plaintiff  for  his  equal  share  of 


CALLED  TO  THE  BAR  93 

the  profits  acquired  by  the  said  trading,  as  by  the  aforesaid 
partnership  expressed  and  provided." 

The  parties  to  this  remarkable  equity  suit  were  hanged, 
and  their  solicitors  had  their  ears  clipped  off  and  were 
clapped  into  prison  ;  so  the  grim  joke  ended. 

The  game,  indeed,  is  almost  always  amusing  to  the 
onlookers,  if  not  to  the  parties,  when  the  law  plays  blind- 
man's  buff  in  the  courts  looking  for  justice.  A  law  court 
may  be  fairly  described  as  a  theatre,  with  the  added  interest 
of  reality.  Therein  are  enacted  "  tragedy,  comedy,  pastoral, 
pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral,  tragical-pastoral,  tragi- 
cal-historical-historical-pastoral/' often  blended  together,  as 
in  real  life,  in  inextricable  confusion.  Almost  invariably 
we  find  the  newspaper  report  of  a  trial,  even  of  a  murder 
trial,  punctuated  with  "  laughter." 


CHAPTER  X 
ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS 

Frank  McDonagh,  Q.C. — The  Nestor  of  the  Bar — His  definition  of  a  lie — 
Lunch  in  court — A  battle  with  bullrushes — "  I  never  expected  your 
lordship  could  " — The  "  big  Serjeant  " — The  king  of  cross-examiners — 
A  ball  of  worsted  saves  a  life. 

A  DIVISION  of  labour  is  usually  observed  in  court :  jokes 
A\.  are  provided  for  the  most  part  by  the  judges,  and 
laughter  by  the  counsel.  But  now  and  again  the  fun  breaks 
out  in  unexpected  places,  and  witnesses,  and  even  the 
parties  themselves,  provide  their  contribution  to  the 
general  amusement.  It  may,  I  think,  be  fairly  assumed 
that  if  law  courts  are  amusing,  Irish  law  courts  have  their 
full  share  of  the  fun.  I  offer  no  warranty  of  truth  in  whole 
or  part  for  the  stories  that  follow.  Of  many  I  was  eye-  and 
earwitness,  others  I  have  only  on  hearsay,  but  I  am  willing 
to  let  them  all  stand  on  their  own  merits.  A  good  story  is 
none  the  worse  for  being  seven-eighths  invention  ;  a  dull 
story  is  none  the  better  for  being  all  true. 

Many  a  half -forgotten  jest  and  tale  linger  round  the  hall 
and  library  of  the  Four  Courts,  their  echoes  growing  gradu- 
ally fainter  as  they  pass  from  tongue  to  ear  and  from  ear  to 
tongue.  I  shall  here  endeavour  to  catch  the  dying  sounds 
and  fix  them,  as  in  a  phonograph,  for  future  hearers. 

I  shall  not  assume  any  authority  or  exercise  any  discretion 
in  regard  to  those  fugitive  anecdotes.  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  settle  the  order  of  precedent  or  merit,  nor,  like  a  crafty 
huxter,  put  all  my  best  berries  on  top,  but  will  as  an  honest 
dealer  pour  them  all  out  higgledy-piggedly  before  my 
readers  without  any  regard  to  the  quality  of  the  fruit  or  the 
garden  in  which  it  grew. 

Frank  McDonagh  was  one  of  the  most  prominent  amongst 

94 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS  95 

the  great  advocates  that  graced  the  Irish  Bar  when  I  was 
called.  He  was  leading  counsel  for  the  defence  in  the  state 
trial  in  Dublin  in  which  Mr.  Parnell  and  a  number  of  his 
colleagues,  including  Mr.  Dillon  and  Mr.  Sexton,  were, 
during  the  height  of  the  Land  League  agitation,  indicted 
before  two  judges  and  a  special  jury  on  a  charge  of  con- 
spiracy. Amongst  the  other  counsels  engaged  for  the 
defence  were  Mr.  Samuel  Walker,  afterwards  Lord  Chan- 
cellor of  Ireland,  Mr.  Peter  O'Brien,  afterwards  Lord  Chief 
Justice,  and  Mr.  Richard  Adams,  afterwards  County  Court 
Judge  of  Limerick.  The  leader  for  the  prosecution  was  Mr. 
Hugh  Law,  who  also  attained  the  dignity  of  Lord  Chancellor. 
Judge  Fitzgerald,  who  presided,  was  promoted  to  the 
position  of  a  Law  Lord. 

The  result  was  a  disagreement  of  the  jury,  the  foreman 
alone  holding  out  for  a  conviction.  The  memory  of  this 
prosecution  has  been  blurred  by  the  more  famous  London 
"  Forgeries  Commission,"  as  it  is  called  in  Ireland,  when 
Mr.  Parnell  and  his  colleagues  were  put  on  trial  for  more 
than  their  lives  ;  but  the  result  of  the  Dublin  trial,  as  is 
usual  in  political  prosecutions,  was  firmly  to  establish  the 
popularity  of  the  Irish  leader,  his  colleagues  and  his  move- 
ment. 

The  rare  illustration  of  the  half-forgotten  Dublin  trial, 
with  portraits  of  the  prominent  men  engaged,  cannot  fail 
to  be  of  interest. 

Come  first,  then,  thou  wondrous  veteran  of  the  Irish 
Bar,  long  since  passed  from  amongst  us,  who  held  for  forty 
years  and  upwards  a  leading  position  in  the  profession. 
Come  with  courtly  gesture,  and  winning  tones,  and  smile  of 
blandest  courtesy.  Tell  us  once  again  your  own  elaborate 
and  inimitable  definition  of  a  lie. 

He  was,  in  truth,  the  Nestor  of  the  Irish  Bar,  old  and 
crafty  as  the  Greek  diplomat.  The  scene  of  the  story  is  his 
own  study.  A  consultation  is  being  held  in  an  important 
suit.  No  man  more  than  he  loved  a  consultation  ;  no  man 
more  than  he  believed  in  the  venerable  adage,  "  there  is 
wisdom  in  counsel."  Never  was  he  greater  than  when  in 
his  own  tent  he  had  gathered  his  legal  subordinates  round 


96       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

him,  and  while  the  champagne  flowed  with  lavish  hospitality 
he  arranged  the  conduct  of  the  campaign — here  planned  a 
dashing  incursion  into  the  enemy's  territory,  there  covered 
a  weakness  in  the  lines  of  the  defence. 

On  the  occasion  alluded  to  the  plan  of  battle  was  arranged, 
every  contingency  seen  and  provided  for ;  one  trivial 
difficulty  alone  remained. 

"  Who,"  asked  the  commander  in  his  most  dulcet  tones, 
"  who  is  prepared  to  prove  the  handwriting  of  the  testator  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  that,  sir,"  said  a  young  managing  clerk  who,  by 
reason  of  his  previous  knowledge  of  the  case,  had  been 
admitted  to  the  consultation  and  was  eager  to  distinguish 
himself. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  the  leader,  with  more  than 
parental  kindness,  "  you  will  render  an  inestimable  service, 
a  service  not  easily  to  be  forgotten  or  lightly  requited  by 
the  client  whom  you  represent,  and  the  firm  who  has  been 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  your  assistance.  But  stay,"  he 
added  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "  if  my  memory  serves 
me  aright  you  are  the  young  gentleman  who,  in  a  previous 
motion  in  this  case,  in  which  collusion  was  suggested,  made 
an  affidavit  that  you  were  totally  unacquainted  with  the 
testator.  Is  that  so  ?  "  \ 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  stammered  out  the  too  zealous 
volunteer,  "it  is." 

"  In  that  case,  my  dear  young  friend,"  rejoined  the  leader, 
with  unabated  suavity,  "  we  will  endeavour  to  dispense 
with  the  service  you  have  so  kindly  offered  on  this  present 
occasion.  Will  you,"  he  continued  persuasively,  "  will  you 
allow  an  old  man,  older  and  more  experienced  than  yourself, 
though  I  unaffectedly  confess  your  inferior  in  ability,  one 
who  will  watch  your  future  career  with  profoundest  interest, 
to  offer  you  a  single  word  of  advice  ?  Never  " — this  with 
impressing  solemnity  befitting  a  high  moral  principle — 
"  never  swear  in  a  court  of  justice  to  anything  that  can  be 
proved  to  be  false  by  a  document  in  the  possession  of  your 
opponent,  for  that  would  be  a  lie." 

Never  was  there  a  man  of  suaver  manners  than  our  legal 
Chesterfield.  It  was  a  tradition  of  the  Bar  that  he  could 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS  97 

smile  insinuatingly  at  the  jury  with  the  back  of  his  head 
while  cross-examining  a  refractory  witness. 

This  bland  courtesy  of  manner  proved,  however,  on 
occasion  to  be  but  the  velvet  cushion  of  the  tiger's  claw,  the 
silken  scabbard  of  the  deadly  blade.  When  swords  were 
out  it  was  seen  at  once  that  he  was  a  master  of  fence. 
His  passes  were  too  rapid  and  too  skilful  to  be  parried  ; 
with  him  it  was  "  One,  two  and  the  third  in  your 
bosom  !  " 

He  was  engaged  as  leader  in  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
Irish  cases  of  recent  times,  celebrated  alike  for  colossal 
sums  in  dispute  and  for  the  singular  conduct  of  the  parties 
concerned.  The  presiding  judge,  the  late  Judge  Warren,  had 
the  temerity  to  enter  into  duel  with  the  leading  counsel. 
Disastrous  was  his  defeat. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  judge  on  one  occasion,  irritated  by  a 
courteous  sarcasm  which  had  requited  a  discourteous 
interruption  of  his  own,  "  sir,  if  you  imagine  you  assist  the 
cause  of  your  client  by  disrespectful  observations  to  the 
Bench,  you  are  much  mistaken." 

"  And,  my  lord,"  was  the  suave  rejoinder,  "  if  your  lord- 
ship imagines  that  you  sustain  the  dignity  of  the  Bench  by 
frivolous  and  irrelevant  interruption  of  counsel,  your  lord- 
ship is  much  mistaken." 

In  the  same  trial,  and  between  the  same  persons,  another 
somewhat  amusing  incident  occurred.  Counsel,  in  his 
politest  manner,  suggested  an  adjournment  for  luncheon. 
The  judge  saw  his  way  at  once  to  a  dignified  revenge  for 
the  stinging  sarcasms  with  which  he  had  been  pelted  during 
the  trial,  "  knowing,"  as  the  bard  hath  it,  "  that  the 
last  of  humiliations  is  the  cutting  short  of  a  foeman's 
rations." 

"  Mr.  McDonagh,"  he  retorted  with  frigid  dignity,  "  I 
never  partake  of  luncheon,  and  as  I  am  anxious,  in  the 
interest  of  the  public  and  the  parties,  to  bring  the  trial  to  a 
speedy  conclusion,  I  must  refuse  an  adjournment." 

"  My  lord,"  replied  the  other  in  his  most  dulcet  tones,  "  as 
I  am  not  fortunate  enough  to  possess  the  immunity  from 
the  cravings  of  weak  human  nature  which  your  lordship 


98       RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

enjoys,  you  will,  I  trust,  allow  me  to  partake  of  luncheon 
while  the  case  is  in  progress." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  judge,  delighted  at  the  prospect  of 
escaping,  even  for  a  short  time,  from  his  caustic  criticism. 

But  he  reckoned  without  his  host. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  the  courtly  veteran,  turning  to 
his  junior  with  winning  courtesy,  "  will  continue  the 
examination  of  this  witness  with  more  skill  and  dexterity 
than  I  could  possibly  pretend  to." 

Then  he  calmly  beckoned  to  a  body-servant  known  as  the 
"  faithful  Rooney,"  by  whom  he  was  constantly  attended. 

A  space  was  cleared  of  books  and  papers  on  the  table  in 
front  of  the  Queen's  Counsel's  seat.  A  damask  tablecloth 
was  spread,  an  elaborate  luncheon  of  many  courses,  with  its 
appropriate  accompaniment  of  glass  and  silver,  was  pro- 
duced from  a  capacious  basket,  and  the  learned  counsel 
proceeded,  with  all  the  deliberate  appreciation  of  the  accom- 
plished bon-vivant  that  he  was,  to  the  discussion  of  the 
repast.  Now  he  daintily  picked  a  chicken  wing,  now  inter- 
posed a  question,  now  sipped  his  champagne,  now  dallied 
with  a  jelly,  now  suggested  an  objection,  now  blandly 
smiled  on  the  jury,  while  all  the  time  the  unhappy  judge 
fretted  and  fumed  in  impotent  fury  on  the  Bench. 

No  provocation  could  touch  the  temper  of  this  embodi- 
ment of  bland  courtesy.  Yet  he  maintained  (in  theory,  at 
least)  the  ancient  traditions  of  the  profession,  which  are  com- 
memorated in  the  costume  of  the  Bar.  The  barrister's  gown 
has  attached  to  it  a  lot  of  eccentric  tags  and  tassels  which 
are  a  puzzle  to  the  most  experienced  wearer.  This  triangular 
tab  once  supported  a  purse,  and  that  an  ink-horn.  This 
long  flap  that  falls  over  the  shoulder  was  a  sword-sheath  in 
the  old  times,  when  the  Templars  were  prompter  with  their 
weapons  than  their  tongues.  They  remain  as  a  memorial  of 
their  former  usefulness,  like  the  rudimentary  tail  in  which 
the  disciples  of  Darwin  find  proof  that  man  was  originally 
a  monkey. 

Irish  barristers  of  old  days  were  famous  duellists.  Every 
counsel  of  eminence,  from  Curran  to  O'Connell,  had  "  his 
man  out."  The  fire-eating  Lord  Norbury  was  said  to  have 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS  99 

"  shot  his  way  to  the  Bench."  True  to  those  traditions, 
this  past -master  of  verbal  fence  always  professed  his  willing- 
ness to  exchange  the  bloodless  battle  of  wit,  in  which  he 
was  supreme,  for  more  deadly  encounters. 

I  remember  reporting  a  celebrated  ejectment  case  tried 
some  years  ago  at  Mullingar,  in  which  a  noble  lord  and  the 
next-of-kin  were  scrambling  for  the  property  of  an  eccentric, 
deceased.  The  next-of-kin  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
secure  the  services  of  this  silken  veteran.  At  the  close  of  a 
somewhat  protracted  argument  he  was  brusquely  accused 
by  the  leader  of  the  other  side,  the  late  Judge  Murphy  (who 
had  just  himself  concluded  a  two  days'  speech),  of  frivolous 
waste  of  time. 

"  This,"  he  rejoined,  still  blandly  smiling,  though  his  lips 
twitched  a  little  at  the  corners,  "  this  comes  well  from  my 
learned  friend  after  the  wilderness  of  nonsense  through 
which  for  the  past  two  days  he  has  compelled  us  to 
wander." 

An  angry  retort  from  his  opponent  elicited  from  him  a 
courteous  suggestion  that  he  was  "  prepared  to  meet  his 
learned  friend  at  any  place,  at  any  time  and  with  any 
weapons  he  might  be  pleased  to  select." 

But  his  opponent  suggested  "  bullrushes,"  and  the  genial 
Baron  Dowse,  who  tried  the  case,  interposed  good-humour- 
edly  with,  "  Gentlemen,  if  you  have  blown  off  sufficient 
steam,  perhaps  you  had  better  proceed  with  the  evidence," 
and  so  the  incident  passed  off  without  bloodshed  after  all. 

Indeed,  our  Chesterfield  was,  justly  or  unjustly,  credited 
with  a  preference  for  such  bloodless  encounters.  He  was 
anxious,  whispered  malicious  gossip,  to  begin  and  end  his 
duels  in  court. 

On  one  occasion  this  supposed  predilection  of  his  was 
broadly  hinted  at  by  an  irritated  junior.  With  all  his 
virtues,  the  veteran  was  not  by  any  means  famous  for 
loyalty  to  the  junior  counsel  who  happened  to  be  engaged 
with  him  in  a  case.  When  anything  went  wrong  it  was  his 
habit  to  turn  to  his  junior  with  a  gentle  but  deprecatory 
smile  and  shrug,  which  said  as  plain  as  words  to  court  and 
public,  "  Behold  the  sad  effects  of  this  young  man's  haste 


ioo     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

and  ignorance."  This  mode  of  treatment  was  by  no  means 
pleasant,  especially  when,  as  was  sometimes  the  case,  the 
fault  was  the  leader's  own. 

On  one  occasion  the  operation  had  been  performed 
repeatedly  with  anything  but  a  soothing  effect  on  a  junior 
of  consummate  ability,  who  was  afterwards  raised  to  the 
Bench  as  Lord  Morris,  and  of  whom  we  shall  hear  again  later 
on.  His  chance  of  retaliation  came  at  last.  The  veteran,  as 
usual  blandly  defiant,  in  reply  to  an  attack  from  the  opposing 
counsel,  openly  suggested  an  adjournment  to  the  "  Forty 
Acres  "  for  the  satisfactory  settlement  of  their  dispute. 
The  suggestion  was  not  adopted. 

Turning  to  his  junior,  with  exquisite  self-complacency  he 
exclaimed,  "  My  dear  young  friend,  that  is  the  way  to 
talk  to  those  fellows  !  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  and  a  broad  Galway  brogue  and 
a  long  drawl  gave  force  to  the  remark,  "  that  is  the  way  to 
talk  to  them,  to  talk  to  them,  d'y'  observe." 

There  is  a  rather  amusing  story  of  how  this  great  legal 
luminary,  this  man  of  all  others  the  most  cautious  and 
astute,  became  the  unsuspecting  victim  of  an  innocent 
artifice  on  the  part  of  the  faithful  servant  by  whom  he  was 
constantly  attended.  They  had  made  an  incursion  together 
to  a  fashionable  English  watering-place  in  the  height  of  the 
season.  The  master,  even  as  an  old  man,  was,  not  unjustly, 
vain  of  his  personal  appearance  :  of  his  silver-white  hair  and 
whiskers,  his  bright  blue  eyes  and  complexion,  clear  as  a 
young  girl's.  He  paraded  the  pier  in  the  somewhat  theatrical 
costume  he  was  wont  to  affect,  a  wide  expanse  of  glossy 
shirt-front,  a  narrow  blue  ribbon  knotted  at  his  throat, 
and  a  voluminous  cloak  enveloping  his  stately  form  in  its 
graceful  folds.  The  servant,  by  command,  attended  his 
steps  at  a  respectful  distance.  While  the  master  was 
delighted  at  the  attention  they  attracted,  the  servant  was 
desperately  bored  by  the  monotony  of  the  performance. 
One  evening  they  were  alone  together,  and  the  master 
insisted  on  being  told  the  gossip  of  the  place  concerning  him. 
The  answer  was  given  hesitatingly  and  with  much  apparent 
reluctance : 


SERGEANT  ARMSTRONG 

"The  Big  Sergeant." 


p.  too 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS  101 

"  They  say,  sir,  that  you  are  a  harmless  looney  and  that 
I  am  your  keeper." 

Thenceforward  the  attendance  of  the  servant  on  the  pier 
was  dispensed  with. 

Just  one  more  anecdote,  and  we  bid  the  ghost  of  Frank 
McDonagh  a  courteous  good-bye. 

As  he  was  addressing  an  elaborate  and  learned  argument 
to  a  rather  dull  judge,  to  whom  he  was  personally  obnoxious, 
he  was  suddenly  and  rudely  interrupted  by  the  Bench 
with  : 

"  I  must  confess,  Mr.  McDonagh,  I  do  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  comprehend  the  force  or  point  of  your  argument." 

The  brief  was  at  once  laid  quietly  on  the  table,  the  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  were  gently  adjusted,  and  the  reply  came 
low  and  clear  from  the  smiling  lips  : 

"  I  never  expected  that  your  lordship  could,  but,  in  order 
that  the  point  might  be  made  in  the  Court  of  Appeal,  it 
was  necessary  that  it  should  be  mentioned  before  your 
lordship." 

The  great  McDonagh  had  a  rival,  if  rivalry  it  could  be 
called,  when  every  quality  of  mind  and  manner  were 
wholly  different.  Each  was  master  of  his  weapon.  Mr. 
Serjeant  Armstrong,  the  "  Big  Serjeant "  as  he  was 
affectionately  called  at  the  Bar,  was  big  in  body,  manner 
and  mind.  He  rushed  his  cases.  He  went  crashing  straight 
through  all  obstacles  to  his  object,  like  an  elephant  through 
a  cane  brake.  In  cross-examination,  especially,  he  was 
tremendous.  This,  as  every  barrister  knows,  is  the  most 
important  accomplishment  of  all ;  for  one  barrister  who 
can  cross-examine  you  will  find  ten  who  can  speak.  It  is 
cross-examination  that  wins  cases.  It  is  cross-examination 
that  brings  the  certainty  of  truth  or  falsehood  home  to  the 
mind  of  the  jury.  The  most  eloquent  speech  can  only 
clinch  conviction  after  it  is  driven  home  by  cross-examina- 
tion. From  the  days  of  the  chaste  Susanna  and  the  elders 
even  to  our  own  time  it  has  "  let  daylight  "  through  the 
most  cunning  perjurers. 

The  Big  Serjeant  was  king  of  cross-examiners.  No  lie, 
however  skilfully  concealed,  however  cunningly  disguised, 


102     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

could  elude  him.  He  tracked  the  guilty  perjurer  with  the 
certainty  of  a  sleuth-hound.  He  did  what  Hamlet  defied 
the  king's  spies  to  do — he  "  played  "  upon  him.  He  seemed 
"to  know  all  his  stops."  He  "sounded  him  from  his  lowest 
note  to  the  top  of  his  compass."  He  "  picked  out  the  heart 
of  his  mystery." 

He  had  a  method  all  his  own.  He  stunned  a  witness  by  a 
sudden  assault,  and  before  he  could,  as  it  were,  recover 
consciousness  he  plundered  him  of  the  truth,  however 
carefully  concealed.  Over  and  over  again  a  case  was  won 
by  a  single  smashing  question,  breaking  through  all  defence. 
It  is  not  easy  to  give  an  example,  for  it  is  not  possible  to 
depict  the  sudden  intellectual  spring,  the  flashing  eye,  the 
inexorable  voice  that  wrenched  the  truth  from  a  reluctant 
witness. 

The  following  is  so  poor  an  illustration  of  his  powers  that 
I  doubt  if  it  is  worth  repeating.  The  case  turned  entirely 
on  the  evidence  of  a  famous  expert  in  handwriting,  whose 
reputation  was  of  long  growth.  Now,  it  happened  that 
many  years  ago  the  Serjeant,  when  he  was  a  young  man, 
happened  to  be  present  in  court  when  this  same  witness  was 
examined,  and  the  judge  had  declared  that  he  would  not 
hang  a  cat  on  the  evidence  of  such  an  expert.  The  Big 
Serjeant  rose  to  cross-examine.  For  a  moment  he  and  the 
witness  stood  at  gaze.  Then  sharp  and  sudden  comes  the 
extraordinary  question : 

"  Is  that  cat  alive  yet  ?  " 

The  witness,  dumbfounded,  hesitated  for  an  answer. 

The  Serjeant  pressed  him. 

He  faltered  :   "I  don't  understand  the  question." 

The  Serjeant  refreshed  his  memory. 

He  made  a  weak  attempt  at  evasion. 

The  Serjeant  shook  and  pushed  him  straight  on.  He  lost 
nerve,  grew  dizzy  and  weak  under  the  pelting  storm  of 
questions. 

To  the  jury  he  had  the  appearance  of  striving  to  shirk 
some  shameful  disclosure.  Then  the  coup  de  grdce  was 
administered. 

"  On  your  oath,  sir,  did  not  an  eminent  judge  on  one 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS  103 

memorable  occasion  declare  he  would  not  hang  a  cat  on 
your  evidence  ?  " 

The  reply  sounded  to  the  jury  like  a  confession  of  guilt,  and 
the  witness  slunk  from  the  box  utterly  discredited. 

In  another  case  the  Big  Serjeant  made  dramatic  use  of 
an  important  document. 

The  Serjeant's  client  had  had  his  office  burnt  down,  and 
three  days  later  he  was  sued  by  a  solicitor  for  a  large  amount 
of  money  which,  he  protested,  he  had  already  paid.  The 
plaintiff,  a  most  respectable  old  gentleman,  clearly  proved 
the  debt,  and  the  Serjeant  rose  to  cross-examine  him. 

Without  a  word  he  handed  the  witness  a  sheet  of  blue 
paper  with  writing  and  an  obliterated  stamp  on  it. 

The  witness  just  glanced  at  the  document,  then  silently 
handed  it  back  to  the  Serjeant.  Still  without  a  word  he 
took  off  his  spectacles,  put  them  in  their  case,  the  case  in  his 
pocket,  picked  up  his  hat  and  began  to  move  unobtrusively 
out  of  the  witness-box. 

"  What's  all  this,  what's  all  this  ?  "  queried  the  bewildered 
judge. 

"  Only  the  gentleman's  receipt  in  full  for  the  amount 
claimed,"  said  the  Serjeant. 

The  plaintiff,  half  out  of  the  witness-box,  turned  to  the 
judge  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  been  cruelly 
misled. 

"  I  take  my  solemn  oath,  my  lord,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  I 
never  would  have  brought  the  action,  only  I  was  led  to 
believe  that  the  receipt  was  burned." 

The  Serjeant's  tactics  did  not  always  succeed.  In  the 
famous  Galway  Election  Petition  he  had  to  cross-examine 
the  venerable  and  learned  Archbishop  Dr.  McHale,  described 
by  Dan  O'Connell  as  "  the  Lion  of  the  fold  of  Judah."  The 
Serjeant  had  a  little  weakness  for  airing  his  Latin  or  Greek 
when  occasion  offered. 

'  Your  Grace,"  he  began,  "  is,  I  understand,  the  fons  et 
origo  malorum,"  making  the  *  in  origo  and  the  o  in  malorum 
both  short. 

."  Your  statement,  sir,"  retorted  the  learned  Archbishop, 
"  is  as  false  as  your  quantities." 


104     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

A  somewhat  similar  attack  on  the  distinguished  Irish 
patriot  A.  M.  Sullivan  signally  failed. 

"  Tell  me,  sir,"  said  the  Serjeant,  opening  the  assault 
in  a  political  case,  "  who  is  the  greatest  firebrand  in 
Ireland  ?  " 

"  Political  or  legal,  Serjeant  ?  "  was  the  bland  rejoinder, 
and  the  Big  Serjeant  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  pursue 
the  inquiry  farther. 

But  the  most  comical  instance  of  his  discomfiture 
occurred,  in  my  own  hearing,  when  he  was  leading  counsel 
for  the  defence  for  a  railway  company  in  an  action  brought 
by  a  cattle  jobber.  The  plaintiff,  a  man  of  ponderous  bulk 
and  deliberate  utterance,  was  being  examined  in  chief. 

"  You  paid  your  money  ?  "  said  his  counsel. 

"  I  did,  your  honour." 

"  And  you  got  in  return  a  small  piece  of  coloured  paste- 
board ?  " 

"Yis,  your  honour." 

"  There  was  printing  on  it  ?  " 

"  There  was,  your  honour." 

The  Serjeant  began  to  grow  impatient.  He  hated  technical 
formalities  and  thought  he  saw  a  chance  to  ridicule  the 
plaintiff's  case. 

The  examination  continued. 

"  Did  you  happen  to  read  the  print  ?  " 

"  I  did,  your  honour." 

"  Cut  it  short,"  the  Serjeant  broke  in  impatiently, 
speaking  out  of  his  turn.  Then  to  the  witness  :  "  You  paid 
your  money  and  got  your  ticket,  my  man,  like  anybody 
else  ?  " 

The  man  had  his  spectacles  on  examining  the  ticket.  He 
quietly  removed  them  and  put  them  in  his  pocket.  Then 
slowly  and  ponderously  he  wheeled  round  his  chair  amid 
expectant  silence  and  faced  the  Serjeant  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  court. 

"  See  here,  me  larned  friend,"  he  said  in  grave  rebuke. 
"  See  here,  me  larned  friend,  no  wan  was  talkin'  to  you,  and 
there  was  no  occasion  for  you  to  put  in  your  gab.  When 
your  own  time  comes  you  can  ax  what  questions  you  plaze, 


ECHOES   OF  THE  FOUR   COURTS  105 

an'  I'll  answer  them  quick  enough.  But  you'll  be  plazed  to 
howld  your  tongue  for  the  prisent." 

He  wheeled  his  chair  round  again  and  faced  his  own 
counsel. 

"  Never  heed  him,  your  honour,"  he  said  encouragingly ; 
"  go  on  as  you  were  going." 

For  once  the  Serjeant  was  completely  dumbfounded. 
Technically  the  witness  was  clearly  in  the  right  and  he  was 
in  the  wrong.  A  moment  later  he  joined  in  the  roar  of 
laughter  that  shook  the  court  and  which  the  laughing  judge 
had  no  power  to  rebuke. 

The  Serjeant's  speeches  were  strong,  plain  and  inornate, 
but  now  and  again  relieved  by  a  gleam  of  grim  humour.  He 
was  prosecuting  in  the  Fenian  times  in  a  great  political  case 
which  had  Dublin  in  a  ferment  and  filled  the  courts  and  hall 
with  eager  crowds.  Isaac  Butt,  the  greatest  lawyer  and 
advocate  of  his  generation,  of  whom  I  shall  have  something 
to  say  presently,  delivered  a  speech  of  thrilling  eloquence 
for  the  defence. 

The  Serjeant  rose  to  reply  :  "I  have  listened,"  he  said, 
"  with  profound  interest  to  the  speech  of  my  learned  friend, 
which  I  am  sure  will  give  delight  to  the  class  for  which  it 
was  intended.  Many  men  are  to-day  hanging  on  his  words, 
and  many  may  hereafter  hang  for  them." 

A  curious  and,  to  my  thinking,  a  striking  story  of  one  of 
the  Big  Serjeant's  first  successes  may  fitly  close  this  in- 
adequate notice  of  one  of  the  giants  of  the  Irish  Bar. 

He  was  engaged  to  defend  a  boy  of  about  thirteen  accused 
of  the  murder  of  a  boy  of  nine  years  on  what  appeared 
conclusive  circumstantial  evidence.  The  two  had  been  seen 
together  early  in  the  day  ;  later  the  younger  boy  was  found 
in  a  bog-hole  with  his  throat  cut.  When  the  elder  boy  was 
arrested  there  was  blood  on  his  hands  and  clothes,  and  he 
had  in  his  possession  a  bloodstained  penknife  and  a  ball  of 
grey  worsted.  The  mother  of  the  murdered  boy  swore 
that  she  believed  that  the  penknife  was  her  son's.  Of  the 
worsted  ball  she  was  quite  certain,  as  she  had  herself  made 
it  for  her  son  and  given  it  to  him  that  morning.  The  accused 
confessed  to  his  own  solicitor  that  he  had  taken  the  ball 


106     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

and  knife  from  the  child,  but  resolutely  denied  the  murder. 
He  had  last  seen  the  deceased,  he  swore,  on  the  roadside, 
crying.  The  Serjeant  (he  was  not  Serjeant  then,  but  a 
briefless  junior)  thought  a  defence  on  those  lines  too  danger- 
ous to  be  undertaken. 

He  endeavoured  by  dexterous  cross-examination,  success- 
ful as  far  as  the  knife  was  concerned,  to  shake  the  mother's 
identification.  But  in  regard  to  the  ball  she  was  positive, 
and  plainly  carried  with  her  the  conviction  of  the  jury.  She 
could  not  be  mistaken,  she  swore,  she  had  wound  the  ball 
herself  from  the  thread  of  an  old  stocking  on  a  pellet  of 
brown  paper.  Counsel  was  completely  nonplussed,  and  at 
the  same  moment,  as  if  to  complete  his  dismay,  his  solicitor 
whispered,  "  The  woman  is  right.  The  boy  told  me  he 
unwound  the  worsted  from  the  brown  paper  and  threw  it 
away,  and  rewound  the  worsted  on  a  bit  of  cork  he  picked 
up  on  the  road." 

To  his  amazement  he  was  bade  in  a  fierce  whisper, 
"  Hold  your  tongue  and  our  client  is  safe." 

The  future  leader  of  the  Bar  saw  his  chance,  and  took  it. 
He  vigorously  resumed  his  cross-examination  concerning 
the  ball.  Every  question  seemed  to  make  certainty  more 
certain,  to  drive  the  nails,  as  it  were,  into  the  gallows  from 
which  his  client  was  to  swing.  But  every  question  was 
artfully  framed  to  rivet  attention  on  the  bit  of  brown  paper. 
Over  and  over  again  the  witness  was  brought  back  to  that 
point,  and  never  wavered  in  her  evidence.  At  last  the 
crafty  counsel  thought  the  situation  ripe  for  his  final  effort. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said  gravely,  "  there  is  a  crucial  test  on 
which  I  am  willing  to  stake  the  life  of  my  client.  The  woman 
swears  that  the  ball  she  gave  her  son  was  wound  on  a  pellet 
of  brown  paper.  I  ask,  my  lord,  that  the  ball  found  on  the 
prisoner  shall  be  unwound  in  court." 

There  was,  of  course,  no  refusing  the  request.  The  ball 
was  produced,  and  at  the  counsel's  request  handed  up  to 
the  jury  box,  with  the  loosened  end  of  the  thread  hanging 
down  into  the  court.  Counsel  began  rapidly  to  wind  it  on  a 
spill  of  paper  torn  from  his  brief,  and  the  ball  whirled  and 
danced  in  the  palm  of  the  foreman,  growing  small  by  degrees 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOUR  COURTS  107 

and  beautifully  less.  One  can  fancy  the  intensity  of  the 
excitement  in  court.  When  at  last  a  fragment  of  cork  was 
held  up  between  the  finger  and  thumb  of  the  foreman  the 
verdict  of  "  Not  Guilty  "  was  secured,  and  the  reputation  of 
the  defending  counsel  established. 


CHAPTER  XI 
BAR  AND  BENCH 

A  white-headed  junior — A  "  play  "  or  a  farce — One  for  the  judge — A  vision 
of  glory — Isaac  Butt — His  acknowledged  supremacy — "  Have  a  half 
one  I  " — Mistaken  for  a  cardinal — Baron  Dowse — "  A  stake  in  the 
country  " — To  "  ride  a  Greek  goat." 

POOR  Fraser  died  an  old  man,  but  he  was  a  "  junior  "  to 
the  last ;  for  his  brain  was  fashioned  rather  in  the 
mould  of  Yorick  than  Polonius. 

His  flashes  of  merriment  were  wont  to  set  the  court  in  a 
roar  ;  but  unhappily  for  his  success  at  the  Bar  it  was  never 
quite  certain  to  which  side  the  laughter  would  turn.  His 
was,  in  truth,  an  unruly  tongue  and  subject  to  no  restraint. 
He  ridiculed  his  own  side  or  his  opponents,  or  both,  with  the 
most  charming  impartiality,  and  as  often  as  not  he  laughed 
his  client  out  of  court.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  "  old 
Fraser,"  when  I  first  knew  him,  I  won't  say  how  many 
years  ago,  was  a  white-haired  junior  with  the  gay  spirits  of 
a  boy. 

On  what  might  be  called  ornamental  occasions  he  was 
inimitable.  Even  at  serious  functions  a  speech  from  him 
was  regarded  as  essential  as  the  sparkling  of  the  champagne 
on  the  dinner-table.  Now  and  again  a  single  word,  in  his 
own  quaint,  dry  style,  set  laughter  loose.  He  would  con- 
gratulate some  ponderous  speaker  on  "  his  exhaustive — 
(and  exhausting) — oration,"  or  some  blunderer  on  "  the 
charming  (if  unconscious)  humour  that  lent  gaiety  to  the 
proceedings." 

On  one  occasion  he  appeared  in  court  to  set  aside  a  plea. 
His  opponent,  who  spoke  with  the  broadest  brogue,  waxed 
eloquent  on  the  subject  of  the  proposed  plea. 

"  It  is  a  good  play,"  he  earnestly  assured  the  court, 

1 08 


BAR  AND   BENCH  109 

"an'  a  regular  play  ;   a  play  founded  on  fact  and  necessary 
for  the  proper  trial  of  the  action." 

Then  Eraser's  turn  came. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  ?  "  queried  the  judge. 

"  But  one  sentence,  my  lord.  '  The  play,'  as  my  learned 
friend  is  pleased  to  call  it,  is  a  mere  farce." 

He  was  quite  oblivious  of  the  golden  rule  (the  guinea 
golden  rule)  that  the  function  of  the  counsel,  especially  of  a 
junior  counsel,  is  to  laugh  with  the  judge,  not  at  him.  The 
Bench  did  not  always  escape  his  frolicsome  raillery. 

A  somewhat  irritable  judge  cut  him  short  in  the  middle 
of  a  law  argument,  thickly  interwoven  with  flowers  of 
fancy,  by  the  impatient  exclamation  : 

"  I  have  done  my  best,  Mr.  Eraser,  but  I  fail  to  understand 
a  single  word  of  your  notice  of  motion." 

"  Not  a  single  word,  my  lord  ?  That  is  really  most 
lamentable.  Will  you  please  permit  me,  to  the  extent  of 
my  limited  ability,  to  explain  it  to  your  lordship  ?  " 

He  read  the  notice  over  with  laborious  exactitude. 

"  Sir, — Take  notice  that  on  the  20th  day  of  May,  or  on  the 
first  opportunity  afterwards,  counsel  on  behalf  of  the 
plaintiff  in  this  action  will  apply  to  this  honourable  court 
for  an  order  that "  etc. 

"  Now,  my  lord,  to  proceed  with  my  explanation  :  '  Sir  ' 
—that,  my  lord,  is  the  mode  of  monosyllabic  address  used 
by  the  solicitor  of  the  plaintiff  to  the  solicitor  for  the  other 
side.  It  is  curt,  my  lord,  as  the  form  provides,  and  indicates 
that  the  parties  are  now  at  arm's  length,  but  it  is  not 
necessarily  discourteous,  nor  precluding  the  possibility  of 
friendly  private  relations  between  the  solicitors.  'Take 
notice  ' — this,  your  lordship  will  observe,  is  in  the  nature  of 
a  warning  ;  the  object  is  that  the  solicitor  shall  be  prepared 
for  the  application,  and  above  all  that  he  shall  have  an 
opportunity  to  instruct  and  fee  counsel  to  resist  the  motion 
if  he  considers  it  possible  or  advisable,  or  otherwise,  to  appear 
and  consent  to  the  order.  '  On  the  20th  day  of  May  ' — a 
day  now  past,  my  lord,  and  therefore  unavailable  for  the 
making  of  this  motion — '  or  the  first  opportunity  afterwards  ' 
— that,  my  lord,  is  the  present  occasion — '  counsel  on  behalf 


no     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

of  the  plaintiff  ' — that  is  the  humble  individual  who  appears 
before  your  lordship — '  will  apply  to  this  honourable 
court  ' — that  is  the  learned  and  courteous  judge  whom  I 
have  the  honour  to  address — '  for  an  order  ' — that,  my 
lord " 

But  the  judge  could  not  refrain  any  longer  : 

"  Go  on  with  your  motion,"  he  said,  joining  in  the  general 
laughter,  "  I  have  learned  my  lesson." 

He  loved  to  startle  the  court  out  of  its  decorum  by  some 
amazingly  incongruous  retort — burlesque  disguised  in  the 
profoundest  gravity.  One  day  he  had  been  engaged  in 
what,  for  anyone  else,  would  have  been  a  dry  law  argument ; 
but  for  him  it  was  a  series  of  incongruous  and  amusing 
quibbles.  He  had  a  contempt  for  authority.  He  spun  his 
arguments  from  his  own  whimsical  brain,  turned  the  cases 
topsy-turvy,  and  utterly  bewildered  the  judge. 

Human  patience,  or  at  least  judicial  patience,  could  stand 
it  no  longer. 

"  Will  you  kindly  tell  me,"  the  judge  broke  out,  "  if  you 
have  any  authority  for  your  contention  ?  " 

Counsel  was  at  once  startled  into  directness. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  the  point  has  been  expressly  decided  by 
your  lordship's  court." 

"  Decided  by  this  court  ?  Why  did  you  not  mention  that 
before  ?  Was  the  court  constituted  then  as  now  ?  " 

Old  Fraser  laid  his  brief  on  the  table,  adjusted  his 
spectacles,  and  looking  the  bewildered  judge  solemnly  in 
the  face  he  addressed  him  in  tones  of  supernatural  gravity  : 

"  No,  my  lord.  Since  the  not  distant  day  when  the 
momentous  decision  was  pronounced,  two  of  your  lordship's 
venerable  and  venerated  predecessors  on  that  seat  of 
justice  have  departed  from  this  scene  of  terrestrial  sorrow 
to  regions  of  heavenly  glory.  There,  seated  on  thrones  of 
gold,  and  clad  in  robes  of  spotless  white,  they  sing  ever- 
lasting hallelujahs  in  a  never-ending  chorus,  which  blissful 
society,  I  trust,  it  will  be  long  before  your  lordship  is  called 
upon  to  join." 

The  man  of  whom  I  now  come  to  write  was  the  greatest 
man  the  Irish  Bar  has  known  since  the  days  ol  O'Connell. 


BAR  AND   BENCH  in 

He  stood  head  and  shoulders  over  the  giants  of  his  own 
generation.  I  have  hesitated  whether  I  should  introduce  at 
all  into  these  rambling  reminiscences  this  great  figure  in 
whose  strange  career  the  pathos  overpowers  the  humour. 
But  in  any  account  of  the  men  whom  I  have  seen  and 
heard,  the  greatest  Irish  lawyer,  orator  and  statesman  of 
his  day  must  hold  a  place. 

Of  Isaac  Butt's  supremacy  there  was  never  any  dispute  ; 
in  the  most  emulous  of  all  professions  he  had  no  rival. 

I  was  present  at  the  Parnell  Commission  when  Sir  Charles 
Russell  dropped  a  paper  which  the  then  Sir  Henry  James 
picked  up  and  handed  to  him. 

"  Thanks  !    Where  did  you  find  it  ?  "  asked  Sir  Charles. 

"  Where  we  all  are,  Sir  Charles — at  your  feet,"  was  the 
courtly  reply. 

The  whole  Irish  Bar,  and  I  may  add  the  whole  Irish  Bench 
as  well,  were  at  Butt's  feet.  He  was  the  one  man  to  whom 
all,  however  they  differed  on  other  things,  conceded  the 
supreme  praise  of  genius.  Nor  was  it  in  this  department  or 
that,  but  in  all  that  he  excelled.  In  a  law  argument  he 
would  convince  or  confound  the  judges ;  in  a  speech  he 
would  capture  the  most  prejudiced  jury.  In  cross-examina- 
tion he  would  coax  or  compel  (generally  coax)  the  truth 
from  the  most  adroit  and  the  most  reluctant  witness. 

His  career  at  the  Bar  and  in  Parliament  was  the  most 
brilliant  success  or  the  most  absolute  failure,  according  to 
the  point  of  view  from  which  it  is  regarded.  He  leaped  at 
once  into  position  and  reputation.  In  six  years  he  passed 
from  the  outer  to  the  inner  Bar.  As  quite  a  young  man  he 
was  selected  as  the  Conservative  champion  in  a  discussion  on 
Repeal  with  O'Connell,  and  even  "  the  Liberator  "  found 
in  him  a  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel. 

It  was  not  a  little  curious  that  he  himself,  as  O'Connell 
then  prophesied,  should  subsequently  become  the  founder 
and  the  leader  of  the  movement  for  Home  Rule  ;  the  pro- 
pounder  of  a  new  Irish  policy ;  the  chief  of  a  new  Irish 
party. 

All  I  have  written  of  the  greatest  of  Irish  advocates  and 
politicians  sounds  remarkably  like  success,  yet  ninety-nine 

\ 


men  out  of  a  hundred  would  pronounce  his  career  an  absolute 
failure.  A  great  barrister,  he  never  attained  to  the  Bench  ; 
a  great  Parliamentarian,  he  never  attained  power.  Even 
his  unofficial  leadership  of  the  Home  Rule  party  was  wrested 
from  him  before  he  died.  To  the  strength  of  a  giant  he 
joined  the  amiable  weaknesses  of  a  child.  He  was  Irish 
all  over,  intensely  Irish  alike  in  his  qualities  and  his  defects. 
If  one  could  imagine  the  most  genial,  thoughtless,  reckless  of 
Charles  Lever's  heroes,  gifted  with  eloquence,  statesman- 
ship and  genius,  one  could  realize  the  strange  combination 
of  his  character.  In  the  practical  matters  of  everyday  life 
he  was  a  baby.  He  earned  money  ;  he  could  not  help 
earning  it,  for  solicitors,  wise  in  their  generation,  forced 
their  briefs  and  fees  on  him.  But  he  could  not  hold  it.  It 
slipped  from  his  fingers  like  a  full  handful  of  canary  seed 
in  a  hundred  unnoticed  little  trickles.  I  have  known  him 
to  borrow  half  a  sovereign  from  a  friend  and  hand  it  straight 
over  to  a  cabman  for  a  sixpenny  drive. 

In  appearance  and  manner  also  there  was  this  quaint  com- 
bination of  the  giant  and  the  child.  He  had  a  grand  head, 
massive  and  leonine  and,  when  I  knew  him,  thickly  thatched 
with  hair,  silver- white.  But  he  had  withal  the  fresh 
complexion,  the  beaming  blue  eyes  and  the  frank  smile  of 
a  boy. 

It  was  his  habit  in  court  to  argue  his  cases  twirling  the 
open  blade  of  his  penknife  between  his  finger  and  thumb. 
In  his  address  to  the  jury  he  had  but  one  gesture,  a  vigorous 
sledge-hammer  motion,  by  which  he  seemed,  as  it  were, 
to  drive  his  arguments  home. 

In  social  life  his  manner  had  the  charm  of  perfect  sim- 
plicity. Whatever  he  talked  about,  or  with  whomever  he 
talked,  he  was  always  bright,  eager  and  absolutely  free 
from  self-consciousness. 

He  has  been,  not  inaptly,  described  as  the  Irish  Gladstone. 
If  one  may  touch  for  half  a  second  on  politics,  it  is  surely  not 
without  significance  that  the  most  gifted  Irishman  and 
Englishman  of  their  generation  were  absolutely  in  accord 
on  the  policy  that  was  best  for  the  two  countries. 

I  had  frequently  reported  Butt  when  on  the  Press.    The 


BAR  AND   BENCH  113 

occasion  that  dwells  most  clearly  in  my  recollection  was  a 
great  open-air  Home  Rule  demonstration.  The  weather 
was  awful.  The  rain  came  down  in  a  perpetual,  unceasing 
splash,  like  water  from  a  hose,  and  Butt,  an  old  man  even 
then,  stood — his  white  head  bare — under  the  deluge  and 
spoke  for  an  hour  to  the  patient  crowd. 

The  reporters,  seated  round  him  in  a  waggonette,  had  a 
terrible  time  of  it.  Our  notebooks  were  reduced  to  pulp, 
and  any  attempt  at  note-taking  was  impossible,  the  pencil 
point  went  clean  through  to  the  cover.  A  good  memory 
alone  enabled  me  to  get  a  reasonable  summary  of  the  speech 
into  the  paper.  It  was  good  enough,  anyway,  to  please  the 
orator,  one  of  the  kindliest  and  most  easily  contented  of 
men.  Some  days  afterwards  I  had  the  luck  to  sit  beside 
him  at  a  dinner  in  a  small  country  town.  He  said  some 
kind  words — he  was  always  saying  kind  words — about  the 
report,  and  I  ventured  to  ask  him  how  he  escaped  with  his 
life  from  the  drenching  he  received. 

"  I  had  two  tumblers  full  of  hot  whiskey  punch  at  my 
dinner,  and  two  more  after  it,"  he  said,  "  and  I  awoke  next 
morning  as  well  and  hearty  as  ever  I  felt  in  my  life." 

Later  on,  at  the  close  of  his  career,  I  came  to  know  him 
at  the  Bar.  He  had  a  fascinating  way  of  treating  the 
merest  junior  as  an  equal,  and  many  an  amusing  story  I 
had  from  those  kindly  lips,  of  which  the  following  serves  as 
a  sample.  Our  talk  turned  on  the  modern  custom  of  dram- 
drinking,  in  contrast  with  the  good  old  times  when  every 
man  took  his  couple  of  bottles  after  dinner  and  nothing 
before  it. 

"  I  was  engaged,"  said  Butt,  "  in  a  case  of  great  impor- 
tance and  intricacy  in  Belfast.  To  keep  my  brain  in  working 
trim  I  got  up  early  and  set  out  for  a  walk  through  the  city 
in  the  cool  grey  of  the  morning.  I  had  not  gone  far  when 
I  met  a  linen  manufacturer  in  a  large  way  of  business,  whom 
I  had  always  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  staid  and  respect- 
able of  men. 

"  '  Good  morning,'  he  said,  '  it  is  not  often  we  see  you  in 
Belfast,  Mr.  Butt.  Out  for  your  constitutional  ?  So  am  I ; 
let  us  have  it  together.' 


H4     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  '  All  right/  said  I,  thinking  he  meant  a  walk,  but  he 
walked  me  straight  across  the  street,  through  the  open  door 
of  a  bar  of  a  public-house,  called  for  two  half-glasses  of 
whiskey,  and  tossed  his  own  allowance  down  his  throat  by 
way  of  good  example,  which  courtesy  compelled  me  to 
follow. 

"  I  escaped  from  him  as  quickly  as  I  could,  but  was  in  turn 
waylaid  by  an  eminent  contractor  and  shipbuilder  and 
subjected  to  the  same  hospitality. 

"  My  next  encounter  was  with  a  solicitor,  and,  of  course, 
I  could  not  resist  his  bland  invitation  to  '  a  half  one.'  A 
doctor  button-holed  me  next.  I  was  not  frightened  of  him 
at  first.  I  relied  for  protection  on  medical  science,  but  I 
quickly  discovered  my  mistake. 

"  '  There  is  a  general  prejudice,'  he  broke  out  irrelevantly, 
for  I  was  talking  about  the  weather,  '  there  is  a  general 
prejudice  shared,  I  regret  to  say,  by  many  members  of  my 
own  profession,  against  alcoholic  stimulant  in  the  early 
morning.  It  is  a  complete  mistake,  my  dear  sir;  gentle 
alcoholic  stimulant  improves  the  appetite,  promotes  digestion 
and,  judiciously  renewed,  fortifies  the  constitution  against 
the  fatigues  of  the  day.  Come  and  have  a  half  one  !  ' 
So  we  had  it. 

"  When  he  left  me  I  began  to  reflect.  The  thing  was 
getting  serious.  I  had  now  had  five  half  ones,  and  let  me 
tell  you,  in  spite  of  arithmetic,  two  half  ones  are  more  than 
one  whole  one.  If  this  went  on  I  would  be  drunk  before 
breakfast  in  the  streets  of  Belfast.  I  had  just  come  to  the 
desperate  conclusion  to  stoop  my  head  and  run,  looking 
neither  right  nor  left,  straight  back  to  my  hotel,  when, 
with  one  final  glance  round,  I  found  salvation. 

"  Right  over  the  way  I  saw  the  then  Moderator  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church,  a  most  venerable  man  with  whom  I 
had  the  honour  of  acquaintance.  '  Here's  my  chance,'  I  said 
to  myself.  '  I  will  get  into  talk  with  him.  I  will  lure  him 
to  walk  in  the  direction  of  my  hotel.  Under  his  convoy  no 
one  will  dare  to  be  guilty  of  the  profanity  of  asking  me  "  to 
come  and  have  a  half  one." 

"  The  plot  prospered.     He  expressed  himself  pleased  to 


BAR  AND  BENCH  115 

meet  me,  and  presently  in  a  profound  theological  discussion 
we  began  to  walk  sedately  together  in  the  direction  of  my 
hotel. 

"  Presently  he  broke  off  a  long  Scriptural  quotation  with 
a  shiver  and  a  muttered  exclamation,  'It's  a  very  chill 
morning.' 

"  '  Oh,  bad  luck  to  you,'  I  said  in  my  own  mind,  '  is  that 
what  you  are  at  too  !  ' 

"  I  guessed  what  was  coming,  and  it  came. 

"  '  hi  my  position,'  he  said  softly,  '  I  am  bound  to  be  very 
careful  to  avoid  scandal  to  the  weak-kneed  brethren,  but 
there  is  a  discreet  little  place  round  the  corner  where  you 
and  I  will  have  a  quiet  half  one.' 

"  I  turned  and  fled  as  swiftly  and  as  steadily  as  I  was 
able,  and  never  trusted  myself  loose  in  those  streets  again. 

"  If  I  met  the  Archbishop  of  Westminster  or  the  Pope  of 
Rome  in  the  streets  of  Belfast,  the  first  words  I'd  expect  to 
hear  would  be,  '  Come  and  have  a  half  one  ! '  " 

It  chanced,  when  Butt  was  at  his  prime,  that  the  Com- 
mander of  the  Forces  in  Ireland  was  a  Catholic ;  an  able 
man,  courteous  and  popular,  but  a  great  stickler  for 
ceremonial  and  decorum. 

Now  the  Commander  deemed  it  his  duty  at  the  very 
earliest  date  to  pay  his  respects  to  Cardinal  Cullen,  prince 
of  the  Catholic  Church,  then  resident  in  Dublin.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  he  arrived  in  Eccles  Street,  a  street  of  great 
roomy,  old-fashioned  houses,  where  the  Cardinal  resided, 
within  a  few  doors  of  the  popular  lawyer  and  politician. 

He  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  a  somewhat 
slatternly  maidservant. 

"  Is  his  Eminence  at  home  ?  " 

"  His  Eminence  !    I  suppose  it's  the  master  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  master." 

"  Well,  he's  in,  you  see,  but  he's  not  up  yet." 

"  Not  up  yet  ?  " 

"  He  was  very  late  last  night,  or  morning  it  was." 

"  Oh,  I  see  !  " 

He  had  a  vision  of  a  venerable  old  man  burning  the  mid- 
night oil  in  profound  theological  studies. 


n6     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

The  servant  interrupted  :  "  You  can  wait  for  him  if  you 
want  to." 

"  I  won't  disturb  him  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  and  you  won't.  He  was  coming  down  presently, 
and  he  never  takes  any  breakfast  worth  speaking  about 
after  a  night  of  it." 

As  she  spoke  she  turned  the  handle  of  a  door  and  ushered 
the  distinguished  visitor  into  a  room  lined  and  littered  with 
books.  The  fume  of  tobacco-smoke  and  whiskey  punch  was 
heavy  in  the  air ;  the  decanters  were  still  on  the  corner 
table  flanked  by  a  big  box  of  choice  cigars ;  half  a  dozen 
packs  of  cards  were  strewn  on  the  ground. 

"  They  were  playing  up  to  near  four  in  the  morning,"  the 
servant  confidentially  explained.  "  I  think  master  lost ;  he 
mostly  always  loses.  I'll  take  this  to  him  directly." 

Exit  with  card  between  her  finger-tips. 

Almost  immediately  a  burly  figure,  an  old  man  in  red 
dressing-gown  and  slippers  and  very  little  else,  came  bustling 
into  the  room. 

"  Delighted  to  see  you  !  " 

The  genial  face,  the  kindly  voice,  the  outstretched  hand  of 
welcome  were  wholly  irresistible. 

The  Commander  of  the  Forces  shook  hands  as  in  a  dream. 
"  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  " — wfth  a  sweep  the  strong  hand 
sent  a  pile. of  books  sliding  from  an  easy  chair  on  to  the 
floor,  and  the  Commander  of  the  Forces  sat  down. 

Before  he  had  recovered  himself  he  was  in  the  middle  of 
a  delightful  conversation.  He  was  amazed  at  the  breadth 
of  view  and  brilliancy  of  his  eccentric  entertainer.  Intelli- 
gence conquered  decorum,  and  -he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
fascination  of  this  inimitable  talker.  All  kinds  of  questions — 
social,  military,  religious  and  political — were  touched  upon 
with  the  skill  of  a  master.  It  specially  surprised  the  Com- 
mander to  hear  Home  Rule  so  earnestly  advocated  by  the 
Cardinal,  whom  he  had  heard  was  strongly  opposed  to  it. 

An  hour  and  a  second  hour  went  by.  The  Commander  rose 
surprised  and  confused  at  the  length  of  his  visit. 

"  I  fear,"  he  began,  "  I  have  trespassed  intolerably  on 
your  Eminence." 


Photo  by  Chancellor  and  Son,  Dublin. 

BARON  DOWSE 


p.  116 


- 


BAR  AND  BENCH  117 

"  My  what  ?  " 

"  Your  Eminence." 

"  Eminence  be  hanged !  "  was  the  startling  rejoinder. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  Then  the  mistake  dawned 
on  him  suddenly,  and  he  shouted  and  shook  with  laughter. 
"  So  you  have  been  talking  to  the  Cardinal  all  this  time !  "  he 
gasped  out  at  last.  "  Should  he  feel  flattered,  I  wonder,  or 
I  ?  Sit  down,  man,  sit  down  again.  You  must  have  your 
bit  of  lunch  with  my  real  self  to  make  up  for  it.  It  will  be 
breakfast  for  '  his  Eminence/  and  we  will  have  our  talk  out 
on  an  easier  footing." 

The  Commander  of  the  Forces  was  wont  to  declare  he 
never  before  or  afterwards  enjoyed  a  lunch  so  much. 
The  irresistible  charm  of  Butt's  manner  quite  captured 
him. 

Baron  Dowse,  as  I  remember  him,  was  one  of  the  wittiest 
of  men.  He  and  laughter  were  sworn  brothers,  always 
together.  At  the  Bar  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  on  the 
Bench  he  bubbled  over  with  humour,  and  he  left  a  trail  of 
bright  sayings  behind  him.  For  years  he  was  acknow- 
ledged the  leading  humorist  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
where  he  sat  as  Attorney-General  in  one  of  Gladstone's 
administrations. 

Those  that  knew  him  well  declared  that  humour  was 
born  with  him,  that  the  law  student  was  as  brilliant  as  the 
Attorney-General  and  the  judge.  When  the  Baron  was 
keeping  his  terms  in  London  as  a  student,  he  occasionally, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  dropped  into  the  "  Temple  Forum  "  for 
a  drink  and  a  debate.  I  found  this  story  there  thirty  years 
afterwards,  told  to  me  by  a  hoary-headed  patriarch  to  the 
accompaniment  of  two  Irish  whiskies  hot,  and  brought  it 
home  with  me  to  Dublin. 

I  do  not  know  what  was  the  subject  set  for  the  debate  on 
that  distant  night,  when  the  brilliant  young  law  student 
from  Ireland  intervened,  but  the  subject,  whatever  it  was, 
had  come  round,  as  it  had  a  habit  of  doing  in  my  own  day, 
to  an  animated  discussion  of  the  wrongs  of  Ireland.  A 
venerable  Englishman  delivered  a  superior-person  style  of 
speech  on  the  subject,  intensely  irritating  to  the  quick- 


u8     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

tempered  young  Irish  student,  who  replied  when  his  chance 
came  with  a  broadside  of  ridicule. 

Stung  by  the  shouts  of  laughter  that  followed  each  shot, 
as  report  follows  the  flash,  a  friend  of  the  first  orator 
indignantly  rose  to  what  he  called  "  a  point  of  order,"  and 
demanded  that  "  the  young  Milesian  should  be  compelled 
to  respect  the  grey  hairs  of  the  previous  speaker." 

The  retort  was  instantaneous.  "  I  am  as  willing  as  any 
man,  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  young  Dowse,  "  to  respect  grey 
hairs  in  their  proper  place.  But  I  cannot  forget  that  grey 
hairs  grow  on  the  head  of  a  donkey  as  well  as  on  the  head  of 
a  man." 

As  an  advocate  Dowse  was  irresistible.  He  was  leading 
counsel  for  the  defence  in  a  case  in  which  a  wealthy  employer 
was  sued  for  damages  by  an  injured  employee.  After  the 
accident,  but  before  the  action,  the  employer  had  shown 
himself  exceedingly  generous  and  considerate.  He  had 
secured  the  best  surgical  assistance  for  the  injured  man,  and 
liberally  provided  for  the  support  of  his  family. 

But  when  the  action  was  brought  he  instantly  repudiated 
all  responsibility  for  the  injuries. 

Counsel  for  the  plaintiff  naturally  relied  on  the  defendant's 
previous  conduct  as  a  tacit  confession  that  he  was  responsible. 
The  counsel  for  the  defence  was  splendidly  indignant  at 
the  suggestion. 

"  People  of  this  kind,"  he  said,  "  would  have  brought  an 
action  for  damages  against  the  Good  Samaritan  in  the 
Gospel,  and  would  have  argued  that  the  oil  and  the  wine 
and  the  twopence  were  conclusive  evidence  of  his  legal 
liability." 

To  recapitulate  his  after-dinner  jokes  would  be  to  write 
a  new  jest  book,  before  which  Joe  Miller  would  pale  his 
ineffectual  fires.  Unhappily,  I  have  only  one  or  two 
samples  to  offer. 

There  was  present  in  the  company  at  the  judge's  dinner 
circuit  a  very  corpulent  pseudo-patriotic  barrister,  a  man 
of  ponderous  presence  and  wondrous  breadth  of  beam. 
He  had  begun  to  ventilate  some  startling  theories  of  his 
own  on  the  Irish  Land  Question.  The  land,  he  thought, 


BAR  AND  BENCH  119 

should  be  taken  by  the  State  from  the  present  owners, 
landlord  or  tenant,  and  divided  amongst  the  professional 
classes  as  the  most  intelligent  of  the  community. 

The  bluff  Baron  had  listened  for  some  time  with  good- 
humoured  amusement ;  at  length  he  burst  out : 

"  Now  I  really  wonder  at  you  to  ventilate  such  doctrines. 
If  it  had  been  a  lean,  lank,  lantern- jawed  greyhound  of  a 
politician  I  could  understand  it.  But  you,  a  solid,  sub- 
stantial man  with  a  pair  of  gold  spectacles  and  a  stake  in 
the  country !  " 

"  I  have  no  stake  in  the  country,  Baron,"  interrupted  the 
barrister  warmly. 

"  Oh,  you  have,"  retorted  the  Baron  without  a  moment's 
hesitation ;  "  you  have  a  rump  steak,  at  any  rate." 

Late  in  the  evening  the  same  barrister,  unsubdued  by  his 
previous  disaster,  was  vapouring  about  the  active  part  he 
was  prepared  to  take  in  event  of  an  insurrection.  He  would 
be  found,  he  said,  facing  the  enemies  of  his  country. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "  You 
have  too  much  sense  and  too  much  discretion.  You  would 
show  the  enemy  the  steak  you  have  in  the  country." 

But  it  was  as  a  judge  I  knew  him  best,  and  it  was  as  a  judge 
that  I  had  most  opportunity  of  appreciating  his  humour. 
There  was  at  the  time,  practising  in  the  Four  Courts,  a 
middle-aged,  muddled-headed  Queen's  Counsel  who  shall 
be  nameless.  The  tradition  in  the  law  library  was  that 
when  he  was  engaged  in  an  intricate  case  he  took  a  row  of 
Reports  at  random  from  a  shelf  and  read  them  at  random  in 
the  courts.  He  was  the  delight  of  Baron  Dowse. 

"  That  is  a  very  interesting  case,"  the  Baron  would  say, 
"  but  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  point  before  the 
court." 

"  Quite  so,  my  lord,  quite  so,"  the  other  would  reply, 
with  undisturbed  equanimity ;  "  but  as  an  interesting  case 
I  thought  your  lordship  would  wish  to  have  it  on  your 
notes." 

On  one  occasion  I  was  present  in  court  when  this  same 
barrister  moved  to  set  aside  a  count  in  a  pleading,  a  form 
of  motion  common  enough  in  those  days. 


120     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

"  But  on  what  ground  do  you  move  ?  "  asked  the  Baron. 

"  The  count  is  unintelligible,"  growled  the  advocate. 

"  Not  to  me,"  objected  the  Baron  ;  "  it  appears  perfectly 
plain." 

"  My  lord,"  was  the  reply,  "  if  your  lordship  bears  with 
me  patiently  for  ten  minutes  I  confidently  undertake  to 
make  it  as  unintelligible  to  your  lordship  as  it  is  to  myself." 

"  No  man  more  competent  for  the  task,"  cried  the 
delighted  Baron,  and  the  moon-faced  counsel  beamed  in 
self-satisfied  appreciation  of  the  compliment. 

Sometimes,  though  rarely,  the  Baron's  humour  missed 
the  mark.  In  a  time  of  great  political  excitement  he 
happened  to  be  going  Judge  of  Assize  on  the  Connaught 
circuit  on  which  I  practised,  and  in  the  assize  town  of 
Castlebar  he  found  himself  baffled  more  than  once  in  attempts 
to  secure  conviction  in  cases  in  which  the  evidence  to  him 
appeared  to  be  conclusive. 

The  counsel  for  the  defence  in  those  cases — Mr.  Charles 
O'Malley,  locally  known  as  "  the  Counsellor " — had  a 
special  advantage  with  the  jury  of  his  town.  He  was  a 
barrister  only  during  circuit,  and  a  farmer  during  the  rest  of 
the  year.  Living,  as  he  did,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
assize  town,  the  men  whom  he  met  at  the  fair  and  market 
as  brother  farmers  he  met  in  the  court  as  jurors.  They 
knew  the  Counsellor  to  be  a  straightforward  farmer, 
and  they  trusted  him  to  be  an  honest  advocate.  He  had 
a  formula  that  never  failed  :  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you 
know  me  and  I  know  you  this  many  a  year,  and  I'm  sure 
you  will  take  my  word  for  the  innocence  of  my  client." — 
They  did. 

The  repetition  of  this  performance  told  on  the  temper  of 
the  Baron.  In  one  specially  clear  case  he  let  himself  go. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said,  "  in  this  case  four 
perfectly  respectable  witnesses,  whose  evidence  has  not 
been  impeached,  and  who  were  admittedly  present  on  the 
occasion,  swore  they  saw  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  commit 
the  assault.  On  the  other  hand,  counsel  for  the  defence,  who 
was  not  there,  and  who  knew  nothing  about  the  case  until 
he  got  his  brief  and  fee  in  this  town,  tells  you  his  client  is. 


BAR  AND  BENCH  121 

innocent.      It    is   for   you   to   say   which   statement   you 
believe." 

They  believed  the  Counsellor,  of  course,  and  acquitted 
the  prisoner  without  leaving  the  box. 

"  I  knew,"  the  Counsellor  proudly  explained  to  his 
colleagues  in  the  Bar  room,  "  that  when  he  questioned  my 
credit  I  was  sure  of  my  verdict." 

Baron  Dowse  took  his  defeat  good-humouredly.  When 
later  on  he  had  occasion  to  speak  of  the  disturbed  and 
dangerous  condition  of  the  country,  "  There  appears  to  me," 
he  said,  "to  be  only  one  place  in  all  Mayo  where  a  man  is 
absolutely  safe,  and  that's  in  the  dock  in  Castlebar." 

The  genial  Baron  was  sometimes  a  little  sharp  on  the 
class  of  magistrates  popularly — or  unpopularly — known  as 
"  the  Removables  "  in  the  Coercion  days  in  Ireland.  On 
one  occasion  when  a  Nationalist  Member  of  Parliament, 
the  famous  Dr.  Tanner,  offended  the  Removables,  an 
elaborate  warrant  for  his  committal  for  contempt  of  court, 
ready  drawn  for  the  emergency,  was  instantly  produced, 
and  he  was  forthwith  bundled  off  to  jail. 

"  They  came,"  remarked  the  Baron,  before  whom  the  case 
was  heard  on  appeal,  "  they  came  with  their  ammunition 
ready." 

The  prosecuting  counsel  suggested  that  the  Removables 
drew  up  the  warrant  without  assistance. 

"  You  might  as  well,"  interjected  the  Baron,  "  expect 
them  to  write  a  Greek  ode." 

Next  day  the  words  read  in  the  newspapers  "  ride  a 
Greek  goat,"  and  the  Baron  laughingly  declared  that  the 
reporters  had  expressed  his  views  more  pointedly  than 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XII 
LAW  AND  LEVITY 

"  Mickey  "  Morris — His  way  with  a  jury — "  I  yield  to  no  man  in  my 
ignorance  " — Only  the  waiters — "  A  little  difficulty  about  that  " — 
Judge  Murphy — Innocent  boys — The  story  of  the  Cock  and  Bull — 
"  Where's  the  '  sportavit '  ?  " 

ERD  MORRIS,  affectionately  known  as  "Mickey,"  who 
was  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland  and  afterwards  Law  Lord 
of  England,  was  pre-eminently  Irish  and  proud  of  his  race, 
characteristics  that  are  preserved  and  enhanced  in  his 
eldest  son  and  successor,  Lord  Killinin. 

He  was  an  Irishman  first  and  a  Unionist  a  long  way  after- 
wards. If  he  could  have  been  convinced  that  Home  Rule 
was  the  best  thing  for  Ireland,  he  would,  I  am  sure,  have 
become  a  Home  Ruler  instantly,  without  any  special  regard 
for  the  interests  of  the  predominant  partner. 

A  long  residence  in  England  had  not  engendered  in  him 
an  "  electro-plated  English  accent."  While  London  society 
scrambled  for  the  pleasure  of  his  company  he  grew  daily 
more  aggressively  Irish. 

In  a  former  chapter  I  told  of  his  ready  and  audacious 
retort  as  a  junior  counsel  on  his  "  silken  senior."  The 
same  readiness,  ability  and  audacity  stood  the  same  junior 
counsel  in  good  stead  in  his  subsequent  career.  From  a 
leading  position  at  the  Bar  he  leaped  clean  over  the  heads  of 
his  seniors  on  to  the  judicial  Bench,  and  he  even  contrived 
to  move  up  on  the  Bench  itself  after  he  got  there. 

As  a  jury  judge  he  was  unrivalled.  He  could  bring 
jurors  to  endorse  any  view  of  a  case  he  had  himself 
adopted.  On  these  occasions  there  was  a  kind  of  electric 
sympathy  between  the  Bench  and  the  jury  box,  for  the 
judge  was  a  kind  of  glorified  juror  himself.  In  his  sound 
common  sense,  his  unaffected  plainness  of  language,  his 
broad  brogue  and  his  rough  and  racy  humour  was  to  be 

122 


Photo  by  Lafayette  Ltd.,  Dublin. 


LORD  MORRIS 

One  time  Chief  Justice  of  Common  Pleas,  Ireland. 


p.    122 


LAW  AND  LEVITY  123 

found  the  secret  of  his  success.  Let  me  cite,  by  way  of 
illustration,  a  passage  from  one  of  his  charges  in  a  case  in 
which  I  appeared  for  the  unfortunate  accused. 

A  prisoner  was  being  tried  by  him  in  the  West  of  Ireland 
for  assault.  Two  independent  witnesses  had  seen  the 
assault  committed  and  identified  the  prisoner.  The  prose- 
cutor's appearance  in  the  box  with  his  head  bandaged  and 
his  face  disfigured  gave  demonstrative  evidence  of  the 
injury  he  had  received.  Having  absolutely  no  defence,  I 
cross-examined  the  witness  in  what  may  be  termed  the 
"  common  form  "  in  these  cases,  as  to  the  number  of  public- 
houses  he  had  visited,  and  the  amount  of  drink  he  had 
imbibed  previous  to  the  beating. 

Then  the  judge  came  to  the  charge. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said  in  his  own  rich  Doric 
brogue,  "  there  are  two  courses,  d'  y'  observe,  adopted  by 
counsel  in  defence  of  a  prisoner.  The  first  is  when  he  has  any 
case  at  all,  when  he  has  any  evidence  at  all  in  favour  of  his 
client,  he  endeavours  to  convince  the  jury,  d'  y'  observe, 
to  convince  the  jury  ;  but  when  he  has  no  case  at  all,  when 
the  evidence  is  all  the  one  way,  and  the  guilt  of  his  client  is 
as  plain,  d'  y'  see,  as  the  nose  on  his  face,  and  no  one 
except  a  fool  or  a  juror  could  be  expected  to  doubt  it, 
counsel  endeavours  to  obfusticate  the  jury.  In  this  case  the 
counsel  does  not  venture  to  suggest  that  the  prosecutor 
beat  his  own  head  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  But  it  is 
urged  as  a  defence  that  at  the  time  he  was  beaten  the 
prosecutor  was  drunk.  Now,  gentlemen,  the  facts  of  the 
case  are  for  you,  but  you  are  to  take  the  law  from  me,  and 
it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  as  a  matter  of  law,  d'  y'  observe, 
as  a  matter  of  dry  law,  that  even  if  a  man  does  go  home 
drunk,  his  drunkenness  does  not  constitute  such  an  equity 
against  him  as  would  entitle  anyone  who  meets  him  on  his 
way  home  to  beat  him  on  the  head  with  a  blackthorn." 

In  a  sheep-stealing  case  tried  before  him  the  offence  was 
plainly  proved,  but  a  number  of  witnesses  were  called  to 
depose  to  the  good  character  of  the  accused.  He  summed 
up  in  a  single  sentence  : 

"  In  this  case,  gentlemen,  the  result  of  the  evidence 


124     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

appears  to  be  that  the  sheep  were  stolen  by  a  man  of  most 
excellent  character." 

"  My  lord,"  said  counsel  in  an  intricate  sanitary  case,  "  I 
assume  that  your  lordship  is  fully  acquainted  with  the 
statutes  and  the  authorities?" 

"  Assume  nothing  of  the  kind,  if  you  please,"  was  the 
startling  reply ;  "  I  yield  to  no  man  in  my  ignorance  of 
sanitary  law." 

His  illustration  of  circumstantial  evidence  is  worth 
recalling.  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid 
you  may  be  puzzled  by  the  long  word  '  circumstantial ' 
which  counsel  has  used  so  often,  so  I'll  try  to  explain  to  you 
what  it  means.  If,  for  example,  you  saw  a  man  going  into 
a  public-house  and  five  minutes  later  you  saw  him  coming 
out  again  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  that 
would  be  circumstantial  evidence  that  he  was  after  having 
a  drink." 

Common  sense  dominated  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas, 
where  for  many  years  he  presided.  Chief  Baron  Pallas, 
President  of  the  Exchequer  Division,  was,  and  is,  a  profound 
lawyer,  a  man  of  most  miraculous  memory  and  erudition. 
In  his  court  strict  law  was  conscientiously  meted  out  to  the 
litigants.  The  Queen's  Bench  was  not  strong  in  any  special 
department.  The  joke  in  the  Four  Courts  ran,  a  joke  with 
a  spice  of  truth  in  it :  "If  you  have  the  law  of  the  case,  go 
to  the  Exchequer  ;  if  you  have  the  merits,  go  to  the  Common 
Pleas ;  if  you  have  neither  the  law  nor  the  merits,  try  the 
Queen's  Bench." 

On  one  occasion  I  raised  in  the  Common  Pleas  Division 
a  highly  technical,  but  unanswerable,  point  of  law  as  a 
defence  to  a  motion  for  judgment  in  an  action  to  recover 
the  price  of  goods  sold  and  delivered. 

"  That's  a  good  law  point,"  said  the  Chief  Justice,  "  a 
good  Exchequer  point,  d'  y'  observe.  But  why  doesn't 
your  client  pay  the  man  for  the  goods  ?  " 

"  Because  he  never  got  them,  my  lord." 

"  Now  that's  a  good  Common  Pleas  point,  if  you  can 
prove  it,"  retorted  the  judge. 

In  social  life  he  showed  the  same  unconventional  candour. 


LAW  AND  LEVITY  125 

It  was  his  privilege  to  take  the  wife  of  a  Home  Rule  Viceroy 
into  dinner  at  the  head  of  a  very  brilliant  and  representative 
company  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge,  Phoenix  Park.  She  was 
enthusiastic,  as  she  was  inexperienced  in  Irish  politics. 

"  Chief  Justice,"  she  said,  when  the  company  were 
seated,  "  I  suppose  we  are  all  Home  Rulers  here  to-night  ?  " 

"  My  lady,"  he  answered  in  his  richest  brogue,  "  the  only 
Home  Rulers  present  are  yourself,  his  Excellency — and  the 
waiters." 

He  was  a  Unionist  in  politics,  as  has  been  said,  and  was 
prepared  in  his  own  humorous  fashion  to  give  reasons  for 
the  faith  that  was  in  him. 

"  Here  we  are,"  I  have  heard  him  say,  "  a  very  poor 
country  in  partnership  with  a  very  rich  country,  with  our 
hand  in  the  till,  and  nothing  will  please  us  but  to  get  away 
to  set  up  a  little  shebeen  of  our  own." 

It  is  probable  that  he  altered  his  opinion  on  this  point 
later  on,  for  no  man  was  more  moved  by  the  discovery,  by 
the  Financial  Relations  Commission,  that  it  is  the  very  rich 
country  that  has  had  its  hand  in  the  very  poor  country's  till, 
to  the  tune  of  three  millions,  or  thereabouts,  a  year,  and  no 
man  argued  the  poor  country's  case  for  restitution  with 
more  ability. 

One  thing  is  certain,  that  his  Unionism  never  took  the 
form  of  abasement  before  the  superior  virtue  or  intelligence 
of  the  predominant  partner. 

The  Irish  question  was  the  main  topic  of  conversation  at 
a  dinner-party  at  which  he  was  a  guest.  One  noble 
member  of  a  Unionist  Cabinet  undertook  to  instruct  the 
company  on  the  question.  He  found  the  solution  of  the 
problem  in  the  sacred  mission  of  the  superior  and  en- 
lightened race  to  enlighten  and  control  poor,  ignorant 
Irish  who  were  incapable  of  self-government.  The  Chief 
Justice,  because  he  had  lived  his  life  in  Ireland  and  knew 
the  country  and  the  people  as  he  knew  his  alphabet,  was, 
of  course,  quietly  ignored. 

At  length  it  occurred  to  the  omniscient  nobleman  who 
dominated  the  discussion,  that  it  would  be  only  polite  to 
make  at  least  a  pretence  of  desiring  his  opinion.  He  ques- 


126     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

tioned  him  with  good-humoured  condescension,  as  a  grown- 
up man  might  put  a  question  to  a  clever  little  boy,  to  flatter 
the  little  fellow,  without  attaching  the  least  importance  to 
his  answering. 

"  Well,  Chief  Justice,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of  the 
Irish  difficulty  ?  " 

The  reply  came  like  a  thunder-clap  on  the  self-complacent 
company. 

"  It's  a  case,  do  you  see,  my  lord,  of  a  very  stupid  people 
trying  to  govern  a  very  clever  people  against  their  will,  and 
there  will  be  always  a  little  difficulty  about  that." 

"  That's  not  very  complimentary,  Chief  Justice,"  re- 
torted the  outraged  nobleman. 

"  No,  but  it's  true,  my  lord,  d'  y'  observe,  and  that's 
better  than  complimentary." 

By  common  consent  the  Irish  question  was  dropped  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening. 

As  a  general  rule  a  judge  is  spoiled  by  his  promotion.  The 
elevation  makes  him  dizzy.  Even  the  mildest-mannered 
man  is  inclined  to  be  a  bit  peremptory  with  former  colleagues. 
His  tongue  tangs  authority  and  his  temper  is  apt  to  be 
snappy.  There  was  one  striking  example  in  my  time,  when 
Mr.  James  Murphy,  Q.C.,  one  of  the  most  pugnacious  of 
counsel,  was  transformed  into  the  most  genial  of  judges. 
Those  who  knew  him  at  the  Bar  felt  it  was  the  same  man, 
strong,  clear,  resolute,  only  he  had  changed  his  manner  from 
steel  to  silk.  He  had  been  an  unequalled  prosecutor  ;  on 
the  Bench  the  prisoner  found  him  the  worst  or  the  best  of 
judges.  If  the  prisoner  tried  by  him  was  innocent,  there 
was  no  fear ;  if  he  was  guilty,  there  was  no  hope.  He  had 
a  knack  of  going  straight  to  the  truth  of  a  case  and  carrying 
the  jury  after  him.  The  most  skilful  advocacy  could  not 
stop  him.  Even  "  the  Counsellor,"  of  whom  I  have  already 
written,  was  hopeless  when  this  particular  judge  was  on  the 
war-path.  Here  is  an  illustration  : — 

The  indictment  was  for  what  is  known  as  a  "  Whiteboy 
offence,"  the  wrecking  of  a  dwelling-house,  and  there  were 
about  a  dozen  men  in  the  dock  charged  with  the  crime. 

The  Counsellor  put  up  a  witness  for  the  defence  who 


Photo  by  Chancellor  and  Son,  Dublin. 

MR.  JUSTICE  JAMES  MURPHY 


p.  126 


LAW  AND  LEVITY  127 

was  shrewdly  suspected  of  being  himself  one  of  the  party, 
and  who  purported  to  prove  that  the  window-breaking  had 
been  done  by  a  party  of  thoughtless,  innocent  boys  on  their 
way  home  from  school.  The  witness  was,  naturally, 
nervous,  but  he  pulled  through  tolerably  well  in  his  direct 
evidence  under  the  skilful  manipulation  of  the  Counsellor. 
Before  the  Crown  Prosecutor  could  open  his  mouth  to  cross- 
examine,  the  judge  interposed. 

"  Turn  round,"  he  said  in  his  deep  voice. 

The  witness  turned  and  nervously  faced  his  comrades  in 
the  dock. 

"  Now,  tell  me,"  the  judge  went  on  in  a  quiet,  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  as  if  asking  a  commonplace  question,  "  which  of 
those  '  boys' '  were  with  you  wrecking  the  man's  house  ?  " 

Before  the  witness  could  stop  himself,  he  had  identified 
half  a  dozen  of  the  prisoners.  Five  minutes  later  the 
Counsellor  was  on  his  legs  telling  the  jury  that  they  "  knew 
him  and  he  knew  them  and  that  there  was  not  a  shadow 
of  evidence  against  his  respectable  clients." 

The  judge  and  the  Counsellor  encountered  again  at  the 
same  Assizes.  The  prisoner,  this  time,  was  charged  with  the 
attempted  night  robbery  of  a  "  lone,  widdy  woman."  The 
amazon  had  proved,  however,  perfectly  competent  to  take 
care  of  herself  and  her  property.  Armed  with  a  two- 
pronged  pitchfork  she  had  put  the  marauder  to  flight,  and 
had  managed,  moreover,  to  get  home  one  shrewd  prod  as  he 
scuttled  through  the  door.  The  police  found  the  prisoner 
next  morning  under  suspicious  circumstances,  with  two 
ignominious  scars  on  his  rear  still  raw  and  bleeding. 

This  seemed  a  strong  case,  but  it  did  not  daunt  the 
Counsellor.  He  had  witnesses  to  prove  that  his  client  had 
been  tossed  by  a  sharp-horned  bull,  who  had  breached  him 
in  exactly  the  same  way  as  the  pitchfork  had  breached  the 
mysterious  marauder.  This  evidence  was  corroborated  by 
an  elaborate  "  alibi,"  a  mode  of  defence  in  which  the  Irish 
peasant  has  the  same  absolute  confidence  as  Mr.  Weller. 

The  attempted  robbery  took  place  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  One  of  the  witnesses  for  the  defence  boldly  swore 
that  he  had  a  cock  that  crowed  punctually  at  that  hour,  and 


128     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

having  been  awakened  by  the  crowing  he  looked  in  casually 
at  the  prisoner  and  found  him  peaceably  in  bed  at  the  pre- 
cise time  that  the  attempted  robbery  was  in  progress  five 
miles  away. 

The  Counsellor  having  made  a  vigorous  appeal  to  the 
jury  to  acquit  his  innocent  client  without  turning  in  their 
box,  the  judge  came  to  the  charge.  He  gravely  discussed 
the  "  co-incidental  bull  "  and  the  "  time-keeping  cock." 
"  Putting  this  and  that  together,  gentlemen,"  he  concluded, 
"  you  have  the  story  of  the  cock  and  bull." 

On  one  occasion,  however,  even  before  Judge  Murphy,  a 
prisoner  got  off  who  was  unmistakably  and  even  confessedly 
guilty,  as  far  as  deliberate  intent  can  constitute  an  offence.  I 
remember  well  the  judge  telling  the  story  at  a  circuit  dinner. 

To  understand  the  case  it  is  necessary  that  the  lay  reader 
should  know  that,  by  one  of  the  curious  provisos  of  the 
British  law,  to  constitute  a  larceny  it  is  necessary  that 
the  article  stolen  should  be  wholly  removed  by  the  thief. 
To  use  the  technical  phrase,  the  "  aportavit  "  must  be 
"  laid  and  proved." 

There  had  been  a  good  deal  of  pocket-picking  in  a  certain 
town  in  the  South  of  Ireland.  It  was  almost  impossible  to 
walk  of  an  evening  on  the  "  Mall,"  which  was  the  fashionable 
promenade,  and  come  home  with  un violated  pocket. 
For  a  long  time  the  adroit  thief  defied  detection. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  a  pompous,  middle-aged  gentle- 
man in  the  town,  whose  rubicund  face  and  social  habits  had 
earned  for  him  the  sobriquet  of  "  Bacchus,"  resolved  to 
play  the  r61e  of  amateur  detective.  He  pinned  a  large  silk 
handkerchief  by  one  end  into  his  pocket,  and  with  the  other 
end  temptingly  protruding  walked  leisurely  down  the  Mall. 
In  a  few  moments  a  tiny  thrill  on  the  handkerchief  apprised 
him  of  a  bite,  and  turning  sharply  round  he  collared  a  young 
ragamuffin  in  the  act. 

The  young  vagabond,  when  his  trial  came  on,  defended 
himself,  and  proved  as  nimble  and  dexterous  with  his  tongue 
as  with  his  fingers. 

The  case  was  proved  home  against  him,  yet  he  opened  his 
cross-examination  in  the  gayest  fashion. 


LAW  AND  LEVITY  129 

"  See  here  to  me  now,  Bacchus,"  he  began  with  easy 
familiarity  ;  "  you're  mighty  clever  ?  " 

The  pompous  prosecutor  objected,  and  the  judge  inter- 
posed. 

"  It  was  only  a  joke,  me  lord,"  explained  the  young 
rascal  in  the  dock ;  "  of  course  I  didn't  mean  that  Bacchus 
had  brains." 

"  See  here  to  me,  Bacchus,"  he  began  again,  and  this  time 
the  prosecutor  did  not  venture  to  resent  the  familiarity ; 
"  you  swear  you  pinned  the  handkerchief  to  the  bottom 
of  your  pocket  ?  " 

"  So  I  did." 

"  Hard  and  fast  ?  " 

"  Fast  enough." 

"  And  I  couldn't  take  it  out  ?  " 

"  How  could  you  ?  " 

"  And  I  didn't  ?  " 

"  You  did  not  because  you  could  not,  but  you  did  your 
best." 

"  Just  so !  Now,  me  lord,  will  your  lordship  kindly 
direct  an  acquittal  ?  " 

"  You  confounded  young  scamp  !  "  burst  out  the  chief 
witness  for  the  prosecution. 

"  Steady,  Bacchus,  steady,  I  was  not  speaking  to  you. 
You  don't  understand  the  law,  me  man.  I  was  asking  his 
lordship  for  a  direction  of  not  guilty." 

"  But  why  ?  "  queried  the  judge,  amazed,  yet  amused  at 
his  audacity. 

"  Where's  the  '  sportavit,'  me  lord  ?  "  was  the  triumphant 
rejoinder. 

He  had  hit  the  legal  blot  in  the  prosecution,  and  his 
acquittal  followed  in  due  course. 

Judge  Murphy  once  delivered  a  very  effective  charge  to  a 
jury  in  an  action  for  breach  of  promise  of  marriage.  The 
defendant  was  not  examined,  and  the  judge  naturally 
commented  strongly  on  this  fact  in  his  charge.  He  was 
interrupted  by  the  protest  of  the  defendant. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,  my  lord  ;  sure,  I  wanted 
to  be  examined  and  my  counsellor  wouldn't  let  me." 
K 


130     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  All  right,  my  man,"  said  the  judge,  "  come  up  on  the 
table  and  be  sworn.  Why  didn't  you  marry  the  girl  ?  " 

"  Because  she  hadn't  the  fortune  I  wanted,  my  lord." 

"  How  much  was  that  ?  " 

"  Five  hundred  pounds,  no  less." 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  judge,  concluding  his 
charge,  "  you  will  find  for  the  defendant  five  hundred  pounds 
damages.  Now,  sir "  (to  the  defendant),  "  she  has  the 
fortune  you  want." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
LAUGHTER  IN  COURT 

Lord  Justice  Barry — Mislaid  his  fee — Asses  and  assets — Lord  Justice 
Whiteside — A  neat  retort — Judge  Webb — "  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew 
you  !" — "Fictions  founded  on  fact" — A  startling  comparison — Lord 
Chancellor  Sullivan — The  Yelverton  case — The  horns  of  a  dilemma — 
An  Irish  "  Miss  Flite  " — "  I  know  it  all  by  heart " — "  I'm  the  testator !  " 
— Lord  Justice  Holmes  and  Lord  Atkinson — A  bit  mixed. 

ERD  JUSTICE  BARRY  was  one  of  the  ablest,  kindliest 
and  laziest  of  men.  When  he  was  appointed  a  Lord 
Justice  of  Appeal  someone  asked  him  did  he  not  find  the 
work  hard.  "  The  brain-work  is  not  hard,"  was  the  answer, 
"  but  the  cushions  are."  He  did  not  put  it  exactly  in  that 
way. 

This  anecdote,  however,  has  to  do  with  the  time  when  he 
was  Attorney-General  and  leader  of  the  Bar.  For  the 
uninitiated,  it  is  necessary  to  explain  in  parenthesis  the  way 
Bar  fees  are  usually  paid  and  receipted.  The  cheque  is 
caught  under  the  pink  tape  with  which  the  brief  is  tied ; 
the  receipt  consists  of  the  counsel's  initials  under  the 
figure  marked  on  the  brief. 

In  this  case  the  solicitor — a  man  at  the  very  top  of  his 
profession — came  himself  with  a  big  brief  and  a  big  fee 
marked  on  it.  He  was  very  anxious  about  the  action. 

"  I  want  you  to  attend  specially  for  the  plaintiff  in  this 
case,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  marked  fifty  guineas  on  your 
brief.  It  is  touch  and  go.  There  is  a  chance  it  may  be 
settled,  but  if  not  settled  we  must  win.  Anyhow,  it  cannot 
be  on  for  a  fortnight." 

The  solicitor  departed,  having  received  most  comforting 
assurances  of  special  attention  to  the  case.  A  week  after- 
wards he  met  his  counsel,  who  advised  him  that  the  case 
was  eminently  one  for  amicable  settlement. 


132     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Acting  on  this  advice  he  did  his  level  best  to  secure  a 
settlement  out  of  court,  but  failed.  It  was  nearer  to  three 
weeks  than  a  fortnight  when  it  was  called.  Then  it  came  on 
a  little  unexpectedly  by  the  collapse  of  the  case  immediately 
before  it  in  the  list. 

Everything  was  ready,  or  appeared  to  be  ready,  for  the 
hearing,  when,  as  often  happens,  the  parties  and  their 
solicitors  got  together  at  the  last  moment  and  arrived  at 
an  amicable  settlement. 

The  leading  counsel  for  the  plaintiff  seemed  much  pleased 
at  this  result  when  he  handed  his  brief  to  the  solicitor  with 
a  word  of  congratulation. 

The  solicitor  looked  at  the  back  of  the  brief. 

"  You  have  not  receipted  the  fee,"  he  said. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  counsel  a  little  awkwardly, 
"  I  will  be  glad  to  do  anything  to  oblige  you,  but  my 
invariable  rule  is  not  to  receipt  the  brief  until  the  fee  is 
paid." 

"  But  the  fee  has  been  paid  nearly  a  month  ago  !  " 

With  a  deprecatory  smile :  "  You  will  find  you  are 
mistaken." 

"  I  cannot  be  mistaken ;  I  put  it  there  myself." 

Then  the  solicitor  pulled  the  slip-knot  of  red  tape  and 
opened  the  brief.  There  was  the  cheque  inside. 

The  explanation  dawned  on  both  at  once.  The  counsel 
had  never  opened  the  brief.  Let  it  be  added  that,  had  he 
been  put  to  it,  he  would  have  contrived  somehow  or  other  to 
get  hold  of  the  facts  and  delivered  an  admirable  opening 
statement  of  the  case. 

Justice  is  popularly  supposed  to  be  blind,  but  when,  as 
has  sometimes  happened  in  Ireland,  Justice  is  deaf  as  well, 
the  result  is  startling. 

A  judge,  to  whose  identity  I  offer  no  clue,  was  engaged  in 
hearing,  or  I  should  rather  say  watching,  the  trial  of  a 
tedious  case,  in  which  the  property  in  dispute  was  a  number 
of  asses  which  one  dealer  had  alleged  had  been  wrongfully 
taken  away  and  detained  by  the  other.  The  case  "  dragged 
its  slow  length  along "  for  several  days.  Voluminous 
evidence  had  been  given  by  witnesses,  eloquent  speeches 


LAUGHTER  IN   COURT  133 

had  been  made  by  counsel,  elaborate  notes  taken  by  the 
judge.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  asses  on  which  the 
dispute  turned  had  been  mentioned  some  thousand  times  by 
witnesses  and  counsel  during  the  progress  of  the  case. 

At  length  the  trial  drew  to  a  close.  Counsel  for  the  plaintiff 
was  making  his  final  appeal  to  the  jury.  He  was  suddenly 
interrupted  by  the  judge. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  looking  up  from  his  notes 
with  a  look  of  owlish  wisdom,  "  I  want  to  know  who  is  the 
testator  in  this  case  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  testator,  my  lord." 

"  Then  how  can  there  be  an  executor  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  executor,  my  lord." 

"  Then  who  is  the  administrator  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  administrator." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  "  no  matter ;  I  thought  I 
heard  somebody  say  something  about  assets." 

Another  amusing  story  of  the  same  judge,  though  it  is 
an  echo  of  the  tennis-court  rather  than  of  the  Four  Courts, 
may  not  be  regarded  as  out  of  place. 

He  was  a  particularly  skilful  racquets  player ;  in  the 
midst  of  an  exciting  match,  swinging  his  racquet  sharply 
round  for  a  back-hander,  he  took  his  opponent  a  cut  on  the 
shin-bone,  which  sent  him  hopping,  dancing  and  cursing 
round  the  court  like  a  frightened  blue-bottle  on  a  window- 
pane. 

"  It's  broken,  it's  broken  !  "  he  yelled  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

His  unwitting  aggressor  meanwhile  waited  patiently  for 
the  game  to  go  on.  At  length  the  continued  yell,  "  It's 
broken,  it's  broken  !  "  came  faintly  to  his  ear. 

He  looked  anxiously  at  his  favourite  racquet,  leant  it  on 
the  ground  and  bent  it  gingerly  to  either  side. 

Then  he  smiled. 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried  cheerily  to  his  opponent,  "  it's  all 
right,  it's  all  right ;  it's  not  broken,  it's  not  even 
strained  !  " 

Lord  Chief  Justice  Whiteside,  possibly  the  most  eloquent 
advocate  the  Irish  Bar  has  ever  known,  retired  from  the 


134     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRI§H  JUDGE 

Bench  before  I  was  called  to  the  Bar.  My  very  earliest 
recollection  of  a  law  court  was  his  delightful  reply  to  a 
witness,  who  coming  upon  the  table  declared  : 

"  I  object  to  give  evidence  in  this  case  unless  I  am  paid." 

"  How,  sir,"  said  the  Chief  Justice,  "  have  they  not  paid 
your  expenses  ?  " 

'  Yes,  my  lord,  they  have,"  the  witness  replied,  "  but  I 
think  they  have  a  right  to  pay  me  for  my  trouble." 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  Chief  Justice  gravely,  "  your  sup- 
position is  correct.  They  have  undoubtedly  the  right  you 
mention,  but  apparently  they  do  not  choose  to  avail  them- 
selves of  their  right." 

There  was  a  famous  libel  action  some  little  time  after 
I  was  called,  which  caused  unlimited  amusement  to  the 
profession  and  the  public.  The  plaintiff,  a  corporation 
official,  was  a  particularly  plump  personage,  the  defendant 
a  distinguished  artist.  The  alleged  libel  consisted  of  a 
cartoon  in  which  the  plaintiff  was  depicted  on  horseback 
in  the  comical  uniform  appertaining  to  his  office  as  City 
Marshal,  and  by  way  of  legend  a  line  from  a  comic  song 
popular  at  the  time,  "  Faix,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  you  !  " 
The  plaintiff's  special  grievance  may  be  best  gathered  from 
the  following  paragraph  from  the  statement  of  claim  : — 

"  The  said  defendant  in  said  picture  or  cartoon  falsely 
and  maliciously  represented  the  said  plaintiff  with  the  lower 
and  hind  portion  of  his  body  of  enormous,  ridiculous  and 
exaggerated  dimensions,  and  partially  uncovered  by  his 
tunic." 

The  late  Judge  Webb,  who  was  counsel  for  the  defence, 
resolved  to  laugh  the  case  out  of  court,  and  succeeded. 
His  speech  was  full  of  audacious  humour,  but  it  was  his 
peroration  that  settled  the  verdict. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said,  "  ladies  of  fashion  are 
connoisseurs  in  beauty.  They  have  so  realized  the  charms 
of  those  graceful  and  swelling  curves  of  which  the  plaintiff 
complains,  that  they  have  called  Art  to  Nature's  aid  in 
contriving  them.  These  elegant  devices  of  theirs  have  been 
aptly  described  as  '  fictions  founded  on  fact.'  But  the 
plaintiff  in  this  case,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  more  sensitive 


Photo  by  Lafayette  Ltd.,  Dublin. 

THE  LATE  COUNTY  COURT  JUDGE  WEBB 


LAUGHTER  IN   COURT  135 

than  the  ladies,  unreasonably  objects  to  have  any  fiction 
founded  on  his  fact." 

The  same  Dr.  Webb  was  on  one  occasion  counsel  for 
Peter  Mulligan,  who  made  an  application  before  the  Re- 
corder of  Dublin  for  a  license  for  a  public-house.  The 
applicant  was  only  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and  the  police 
objected  on  account  of  his  youth. 

"  He  is  very  young  for  so  responsible  a  position,"  quoth 
the  Recorder. 

Dr.  Webb  instantly  rose  to  the  occasion  : 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  Alexander  the  Great  at  twenty-two 
years  of  age  had — had  crushed  the  Illyrians  and  razed  the 
city  of  Thebes  to  the  ground,  had  crossed  the  Hellespont  at 
the  head  of  his  army,  had  conquered  Darius  with  a  force 
of  a  million  in  the  defiles  of  Issus  and  brought  the  great 
Persian  Empire  under  his  sway.  At  twenty-three  Rene" 
Descartes  evolved  a  new  system  of  philosophy.  At  twenty- 
four  Pitt  was  Prime  Minister  of  the  British  Empire,  on 
whose  dominions  the  sun  never  sets.  At  twenty-four 
Napoleon  overthrew  the  enemies  of  the  Republic  with  a 
whiff  of  grape-shot  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  is  it  now  to 
be  judicially  decided  that  at  twenty-five  my  client,  Peter 
Mulligan,  is  too  young  to  manage  a  public-house  in  Capel 
Street  ?  " 

The  license  was  hurriedly  granted. 

It  was  said  that  the  late  Lord  Chancellor  Sullivan  was  for 
many  years  the  real  governor  of  Ireland,  so  faithfully  did  a 
succession  of  Lord-Lieutenants  and  Chief  Secretaries  follow 
his  advice. 

By  sheer  merit  he  climbed  through  every  gradation  to 
the  supreme  position  of  head  of  the  Irish  Judiciary.  I  did 
not  know  him  at  all  as  an  advocate,  but  traditions  of  his 
prowess  as  a  cross-examiner  were  still  alive  in  the  Four 
Courts  when  I  was  called  to  the  Bar. 

The  famous  Yelverton  case  turned  on  a  question  of 
marriage  or  seduction. 

"  Major  Yelverton,"  asked  Sullivan,  opening  his  cross- 
examination  of  the  defendant,  "  did  you  ever  love  Theresa 
Longworth  ?  " 


136     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

The  Major  hesitatingly  confessed  that  he  did.  The  next 
question  impaled  him  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma. 

"  Honourably  or  dishonourably  ?  " 

As  Master  of  the  Rolls,  and  afterwards  as  Lord  Chancellor, 
Sullivan  was  the  most  considerate  of  men.  Nervous  young 
juniors  were  sure  in  his  court  of  an  encouraging  word  and  a 
patient  hearing.  But  he  thought  fit  to  disguise,  or  attempt 
to  disguise,  his  general  kindliness  behind  the  strict  manner 
and  the  strong  words  of  the  martinet. 

A  somewhat  loose  practice  had  crept  into  the  Rolls 
Court — where  he  for  a  long  time  presided — regarding  the  pay- 
ment of  funds  out  of  court.  He  "  resolved  to  reform  it 
altogether."  The  moment  payment  of  money  was  so  much 
as  hinted  at  in  a  law  argument,  counsel  was  instantly 
pulled  up  sharply  by  the  curt  command  from  the  Bench  : 

"  Produce  the  Accountant-General's  certificate  !  " 

It  came  to  pass  that  "  produce  the  Accountant-General's 
certificate  "  grew  to  be  a  byword  with  the  Bar.  I  remember 
I  was  out  on  a  boating  excursion  with  some  colleagues.  The 
weather  grew  chilly.  "  Produce  the  Accountant-General's 
certificate,"  said  one  of  the  party  to  another.  Instantly 
a  huge,  well-filled  wicker  flask  made  its  appearance.  It  was 
called  the  Accountant-General's  certificate,  he  explained, 
because  it  was  necessary  to  produce  it  on  every  emergency. 

There  was  in  those  days  an  Irish  "  Miss  Flite,"  as  strange 
and  as  sad  as  the  little  lady  of  Dickens'  creation.  She,  too, 
had  been  driven  crazy  by  interminable  litigation,  and 
some  curious  fascination  compelled  her  to  haunt  the  courts, 
as  ghosts  are  reputed  to  haunt  the  scene  of  their  misfortune. 
There  she  would  sit  for  the  length  of  a  day  in  the  back 
benches  behind  the  counsel,  with  sad  attentive  ear  listening 
to  the  law  arguments. 

It  was  noticed,  however,  that  a  gleam  of  pleasure  shone  on 
her  pale  face  whenever  there  was  a  breeze  in  court  and  the 
little  judge  let  out  at  some  delinquent.  It  was  noticed,  too, 
that  occasionally  she  muttered  to  herself  as  if  engaged  in 
fervent  prayer.  A  junior  barrister,  prompted  by  curiosity, 
got  close  enough  to  her  seat  to  catch  the  words  of  her 
muttered  litany : 


LAUGHTER  IN   COURT  137 

"  O  Lord  God,"  it  ran,  "  mercifully  grant  that  the 
Accountant-General's  certificate  cannot  be  produced." 

The  poor  old  thing  had  not  the  least  idea  what  the 
Accountant-General's  certificate  was,  or  what  it  was  wanted 
for.  But  she  knew  if  it  was  not  produced  there  was  bound 
to  be  a  row  in  court,  and  that  was  quite  enough  for  her. 

His  lordship  was  a  great  stickler  for  precise  pleading. 
From  having  been  the  most  eloquent  of  Nisi  Prius  advocates, 
he  had,  by  almost  miraculous  transformation,  become  one 
of  the  most  accomplished  of  Equity  Judges. 

In  a  case  before  him  the  merits  were  all  with  the  plaintiff, 
but  the  plaintiff's  pleadings  were  in  a  hopeless  muddle. 
Over  and  over  again  the  judge  harped  sharply  on  the 
irregularities.  The  junior  counsel  for  the  plaintiff,  afterwards 
Judge  Monroe,  a  brilliant  Nisi  Prius  advocate,  one  of  the 
most  genial  and  popular  of  men,  and  a  great  favourite  with 
this  particular  judge,  evaded  technicalities  and  stuck  to  the 
merits  of  the  case.  Though  little  used  to  the  Equity  side 
of  the  court,  his  clear  common  sense  carried  him  through, 
and  he  made  an  excellent  argument. 

"  Quite  so,  quite  so,"  the  judge  assented  sharply.  "  But 
will  you  kindly  tell  me  how  comes  it  that  there  is  not  one 
word  of  the  case  you  are  now  making  in  your  statement  of 
claim  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  your  lordship.  It  is  very  simple.  I  drafted 
the  statement  of  claim,  my  lord,  and,  as  your  lordship  is 
aware,  I  am  a  d — d  bad  Equity  pleader." 

There  were  no  more  complaints  about  the  statement  of 
claim  to  the  end  of  the  case. 

The  following  retort  was  still  more  audacious.  Woe 
betide  the  solicitor  that  came  into  this  court  unprepared  ! 
The  judge  instantly  launched  out  into  a  torrent  of  pictur- 
esque invective  and  threats  of  the  things  he  would  do  the 
"  next  time."  But  the- judicial  bark  had  no  bite  attached. 
It  was  always  the  "  next  time."  The  offender  was  merely 
required,  for  form's  sake,  to  look  penitent.  Presently  the 
judge  cooled  down  and  the  case  quietly  proceeded. 

The  instance  of  which  I  have  to  tell  was,  however,  a 
particularly  bad  offence.  The  counsel,  Mr.  Jackson,[g.c.,  a 


138     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

genial  and  easy-going  gentleman — had  been  handed  his 
brief  at  the  door  of  the  court  and  none  of  the  original 
documents  were  forthcoming.  Instantly  the  judge  pro- 
ceeded to  paint  the  court  red  in  his  customary  fashion. 
The  counsel  philosophically  availed  himself  of  the  welcome 
respite  to  glance  through  the  pages  of  his  brief. 

The  judge  in  full  torrent  of  his  fiery  eloquence,  happened 
to  glance  down  and  saw  him  thus  placidly  employed. 
Suddenly  interrupting  himself,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  I  declare,  Mr.  Jackson,  you  have  not  been  attending  to 
a  single  word  I  said  !  " 

Counsel  looked  up  from  his  brief  with  a  smile,  keeping  his 
place  with  his  hand. 

"  No,  my  lord,"  he  assented  blandly,  "  I  knew  it  all  by 
heart." 

The  judge's  sense  of  humour  was  irresistibly  tickled.  He 
made  one  brief  vain  effort  to  look  stern  and  dignified,  then 
he  joined  in  the  shout  of  laughter  that  shook  the  court. 

He  was  very  clear  and  masterful  in  his  judgments,  and 
was  almost  invariably  upheld  on  appeal.  But  on  one 
occasion  he  was  interrupted  and  reversed  in  his  own  court. 

It  was  an  equity  suit  to  determine  the  true  construction 
of  the  last  testament  of  a  man  who  had  disappeared  some 
twenty  years  before,  leaving  a  complex  will,  considerable 
property  and  a  large  number  of  relatives  to  scramble  for  it. 

The  judge  formed,  as  was  his  wont,  a  strong  opinion,  and 
expressed  it  strongly  in  his  judgment.  Having  set  forth  his 
view  of  the  will — 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  it  is  perfectly  clear,  was  the  true 
meaning  and  intention  of  the  testator." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,"  interrupted  a  voice  in  the 
body  of  the  court,  "  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind." 

The  judge  was  struck  dumb  for  a  moment  with  anger  and 
amazement. 

"  How  dare  you,  sir  !  "  he  broke  out  at  last.  "  How  dare 
you  interrupt  the  court  in  this  scandalous  fashion !  Who 
are  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  testator,  my  lord." 

Both  the  parties  to  the  following  amusing  encounter  are 


SIR  EDWARD  SULLIVAN 

I.ate  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland. 


LAUGHTER   IN   COURT  139 

still  alive,  and  both  occupy  high  positions  on  the  Bench,  one 
in  Ireland,  the  other  in  England.  At  the  time  the  thing 
happened  the  more  highly  placed  of  the  two  judges  was  an 
advocate  practising  at  the  Irish  Bar,  an  able  lawyer  and  an 
eloquent  speaker.  He  had,  however,  a  peculiar  trick  of 
mixing  the  names  of  the  parties,  a  particularly  irritating 
trick — I  have  it  myself,  so  I  ought  to  know. 

In  the  case  of  "  Brown  v.  Jones  "  he  was  engaged  in  an 
erudite  law  argument.  For  a  long  time  Judge  Holmes 
heard  him  with  patience. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Atkinson,"  he  said  at  last.  "  So 
long  as  you  persistently  and  consistently  alluded  to  the 
plaintiff  Brown  as  the  defendant  Jones  and  the  defendant 
Jones  as  the  plaintiff  Brown,  the  court  could  contrive  to 
follow  your  argument.  But  when  you  introduce  a  third 
party  by  the  name  of  Robinson  without  explaining  whether 
you  intend  him  to  represent  the  plaintiff  Brown  or  the 
defendant  Jones,  a  certain  difficulty  arises." 

On  another  occasion  Lord  Justice  Holmes  was  himself 
amusingly  countered  by  a  junior  barrister,  who  was 
defending  a  prisoner  before  him.  Though  the  prisoner  was 
a  rather  elderly  man,  counsel  made  frequent  appeals  to  the 
jury  to  take  into  account  the  fact  that  he  was  an  orphan. 

The  judge  grew  impatient. 

"  I  really  don't  see,"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  the  fact  that 
your  client  is  an  orphan  bears  on  the  case.  He  is  old 
enough  to  take  care  of  himself,  and  it  is  quite  natural  at 
his  age  he  should  have  lost  his  parents.  For  instance,  I 
myself  am  an  orphan." 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  interposed  the  counsel,  "  and  should 
your  lordship  ever  have  the  misfortune  to  come  before  a 
jury  of  your  fellow-countrymen,  I  trust  that  circumstance 
will  be  taken  into  consideration  in  your  lordship's  favour." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
PRACTICE  AT  THE  BAR 

On  trial  for  his  life — Murder  will  out — Three  times  tried — A  close  shave — 
A  test  of  insanity — An  unspeakable  woman — Concocted  confession — 
"  I  gave  it  to  him  in  the  groin  " — Good  coin  or  counterfeit  ? — An 
ingenious  fraud. 

ECE  necessity,  I  knew  no  law  when  I  was  called  to  the 
Bar,  I  learned  it  by  practice  as  a  child  learns  to  walk 
by  walking.  An  old  schoolfellow,  Mr.  Thomas  O'Meara, 
who  had  just  been  entered  as  a  solicitor,  gave  me  all  his 
business,  and  it  is  very  pleasant  to  remember  that  in  the 
first  fourteen  cases  we  worked  together  we  scored  thirteen 
wins.  Amongst  these  cases  were  two  actions  for  breach  of 
promise  of  marriage.  In  one  of  them,  brought  by  a  butcher 
against  a  countess,  we  secured  damages  for  the  butcher ; 
in  the  other,  brought  by  a  young  lady  against  a  publican, 
the  defendant,  for  whom  we  appeared,  got  his  verdict  with 
costs. 

I  found  criminal  cases,  though  the  least  profitable,  far 
the  most  exciting.  In  my  time  I  defended  as  many  as  a 
score  of  prisoners  for  their  lives,  but  I  had  the  same  feverish 
anxiety  in  the  last  case  as  in  the  first. 

People  may  say,  "  Why  be  anxious,  especially  when  you 
know  your  client  is  guilty  ?  "  An  advocate,  if  he  is  worth 
his  salt,  never  while  the  trial  lasts  believes  in  the  guilt  of  the 
prisoner  he  is  defending  for  his  life.  All  other  considerations 
are  lost  in  the  overwhelming  desire  to  save  his  man  from 
the  gallows. 

It  is  an  exciting  game  to  play  when  the  stakes  are  the  life 
or  death  of  the  unhappy  wretch  who  stands  there  grasping  the 
spikes  of  the  dock,  with  livid  face  and  eyes  of  piteous  appeal : 
a  game  of  caution  and  skill  that  puts  an  almost  unendurable 

140 


PRACTICE  AT  THE  BAR  141 

strain  on  the  nerves.  A  single  question  may  save  a  man  or 
hang  him.  The  advocate  has  to  get  inside  the  brain  and 
heart  of  the  jury  to  find  arguments  to  convince,  appeals  to 
move  them. 

One  man  I  remember  well  whom  I  defended  at  three 
separate  trials — a  good-looking,  powerful,  middle-aged  man. 
He  was  accused  of  murdering  his  brother-in-law,  a  vicious 
drunkard,  a  ne'er-do-well,  who  made  the  lives  of  his  wife 
and  children  a  hell  upon  earth.  One  night  this  reprobate 
disappeared  and  was  seen  no  more.  His  wife  and  children 
were  made  happy  by  his  death.  The  brother,  who  was  a 
well-to-do  bachelor,  helped  them,  and  for  fourteen  years 
all  went  well  with  the  family.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  security, 
the  ghost  of  the  forgotten  victim  rose  from  its  grave.  An 
accomplice  confessed  on  his  death-bed ;  the  skeleton  of 
the  murdered  man  was  discovered  in  the  bog-hole  indicated 
in  the  confession,  and  a  hundred  corroborating  circumstances 
unnoticed  at  the  time  were  remembered.  I  was  never  in  a 
case  in  which  the  evidence  was  so  cruelly  conclusive.  There 
was  hardly  a  loophole  for  the  most  shadowy  doubt  to 
creep  in. 

Every  day  for  a  week  I  fought  the  battle  for  this  man's  life ; 
all  night  I  lay  awake  thinking  of  him.  The  eyes  that  looked 
out  from  the  dock,  the  eyes  of  a  newly  caged  beast  in  deadly 
terror,  were  always  before  me.  In  the  first  trial  the  con- 
scientious doubt  of  a  single  juror  alone  stood  between  the 
prisoner  and  death  :  in  the  second  there  were  three  jurors 
in  his  favour ;  in  the  third  seven ;  finally  he  was  discharged 
a  broken-down  wreck  of  a  man,  the  ghost  of  his  former  self. 

In  another  murder  trial  in  which  I  appeared  for  the  defence 
the  accused  had  travelled  all  the  way  from  the  North  of 
Ireland  to  shoot  in  Galway  a  pretty  barmaid  who  had 
jilted  him.  The  only  possible  defence  was  insanity,  and  he 
would  have  escaped  on  this  plea  of  insanity,  so  a  juror  told 
me  afterwards,  but  for  one  apparently  trivial  circumstance. 
When  he  arrived  at  Galway  he  had  two  glasses  of  raw 
whiskey  to  prime  him  for  the  murder.  A  madman,  the  jury 
shrewdly  argued,  would  not  need  a  stimulant ;  so  they 
convicted  him. 


142     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

In  another  murder  case  I  had  the  startling  illustration  of 
the  truth  of  Tennyson's  lines  : 

For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and  Earth, 
But  women,  best  and  worst,  are  heaven  and  hell. 

The  malignant  ingenuity  displayed  by  a  young  girl  who 
was  chief  witness  in  the  case,  passes  belief.  For  some  slight 
slur,  real  or  fancied,  she  strove  with  devilish  cunning  to 
swear  away  the  lives  of  two  wholly  innocent  people. 

A  policeman  had  been  murdered  at  dusk  in  the  streets  of 
the  small  town  of  Loughrea.  The  girl,  who  was  then  in  the 
service  of  a  publican  named  Clarke,  swore  that  she  heard 
her  master  relate  to  his  wife  in  circumstantial  detail  how 
he  committed  the  murder. 

The  story  was  admirably  devised  and  supported  by  a 
great  deal  of  circumstantial  corroboration.  Clarke,  more- 
over, had  had  many  quarrels  with  the  constable  with  regard 
to  licensing  prosecutions,  and  the  impossibility  of  believing 
that  a  young  girl  could  or  would  invent  such  a  story  told 
powerfully  against  the  prisoner. 

A  few  days  before  the  trial  the  solicitor  who  instructed 
me  in  the  case  came  to  me  with  the  news  that  the  chief 
witness  for  the  prosecution  was  a  girl  of  bad  character, 
who  had  had  an  illegitimate  child  in  the  Portumna  work- 
house. 

"  She  will  deny  it,"  I  said. 

"  I  can  prove  it,"  he  replied. 

"  No,  you  can't." 

"  But  I  can,  I  tell  you.  I  have  the  evidence  of  the  master 
and  the  matron  and  the  midwife  of  the  workhouse." 

"  Not  one  of  them  will  be  allowed  to  open  their  lips  in 
the  case,"  I  explained.  "  Her  denial  on  cross-examination 
as  to  character  must  be  accepted  as  conclusive.  However, 
I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

When  it  came  to  the  trial  I  had  the  master,  matron  and 
midwife  all  ranged  together  on  a  bench  facing  the  jury  box. 

The  girl  gave  her  evidence  with  wonderful  coolness  and 
ingenuity.  She  described  Clarke  telling  the  details  of  the 
murder  to  his  wife  in  his  bedroom,  while  the  witness  listened 
at  the  keyhole : 


PRACTICE  AT  THE  BAR  143 

"  I  was  waiting  for  him  with  the  revolver  ready  when  he 
came  close  up  to  me,  I  gave  it  to  him  in  the  groin,  and  he 
fell  on  the  spot.  I  ran  round  the  corner  and  came  back  again 
with  the  crowd  when  the  body  was  found  and  they  were 
carrying  him  to  the  police-station." 

Reading  over  the  depositions,  I  found  that  her  evidence 
at  the  trial  was  practically  the  same  as  she  had  sworn  before 
the  magistrates  the  day  after  the  murder.  It  was  impossible 
to  break  her  down  on  cross-examination.  As  I  anticipated, 
she  denied  point-blank  the  incident  at  the  Portumna 
workhouse,  and  by  law,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  not  allowed  to 
controvert  that  denial.  The  expediency  of  the  legal  rule  is 
plain  enough.  If  it  were  otherwise  a  new  issue  might  be 
raised  about  the  character  of  every  witness,  and  trials 
would  be  interminable.  But  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  rule  occasionally  shuts  an  essential  truth  from  the 
jury. 

This  time  I  succeeded  in  getting  the  truth  in  by  a  side 
door.  I  told  the  witness  to  look  at  the  master  of  the  work- 
house where  he  sat  fronting  the  jury. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  that  man  before  ?  " 

"  Never  !  " 

The  expression  on  his  face  was  more  valuable  than  any 
evidence  he  could  have  given  on  his  oath.  The  matron's 
face  when  her  turn  came  was  a  still  more  emphatic  contra- 
diction. But  the  midwife  lost  all  control  of  herself  when  the 
witness  denied  having  ever  seen  her,  she  threw  up  her 
hands  and  her  eyes  in  eloquent  protest. 

"  Oh,  you  huzzy,  you  lying  huzzy,"  she  cried,  "  how 
dare  you  swear  the  like  o'  that !  " 

There  was  a  sharp  order  of  silence  in  the  court,  but  the 
truth  had  got  to  the  jury  in  spite  of  the  law. 

Then  followed  a  strange  little  bit  of  evidence  that  abso- 
lutely exonerated  the  accused,  and  proved  conclusively  that 
the  story  of  his  confession  was  a  lying  concoction  from 
beginning  to  end.  "  In  the  groin  "  of  the  murdered  police- 
man, when  his  body  was  brought  to  the  barracks,  there 
had  been  found  a  gaping  bullet-wound.  No  other  wound 
was  discovered  at  the  time,  and  it  was  naturally  assumed 


144     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

that  the  man  was  shot  in  the  groin  from  in  front.  The  girl 
was  present  on  the  occasion  at  the  police  barracks,  and  she 
shaped  the  alleged  confession  accordingly. 

But  on  subsequent  examination  a  small  wound  was 
found  Where  the  bullet  entered  at  the  buttock  and  passed 
right  through.  The  wound  on  the  groin  marking  the  exit  of 
the  bullet  was,  of  course,  the  larger  and  the  more  conspicuous, 
but  the  medical  evidence  was  conclusive.  The  doctor  swore 
the  man  had  been  shot  from  behind,  and  so  the  whole  case 
for  the  prosecution  crumbled  away  and  the  prisoner  was 
instantly  acquitted. 

I  never  heard  what  became  of  the  girl. 

As  an  illustration  of  a  very  ingenious  swindle,  the  following 
otherwise  unimportant  case  may  not  be  without  interest. 
I  was  instructed  to  defend  a  man  for  coining,  and  at  first 
sight  the  case  did  certainly  appear  very  strong  against  the 
prisoner. 

He  had  gone  to  a  shopkeeper  in  Sligo  and  suggested  a 
partnership  in  a  coining  campaign.  As  a  proof  of  good 
faith,  he  offered  there  and  then  to  coin  a  base  half-crown 
which  it  would  be  impossible  to  detect.  He  had  with  him 
a  wooden  frame  lined  with  tin,  with  a  rude  mould  of  a  half- 
crown  in  the  middle.  Into  a  small  hole  in  the  wood  he 
poured  some  white  metal  from  a  ladle,  and  presently 
opening  the  mould  he  took  out  a  new  half-crown  so  hot 
that  the  shopkeeper  could  not  hold  it  in  his  hands,  and  so 
perfectly  made  that  the  closest  scrutiny  could  not  detect 
any  difference  between  it  and  the  genuine  coin.  It  was 
subjected  to  a  still  more  stringent  test.  The  shopkeeper 
brought  it  to  the  bank  and  boldly  asked  if  it  was  all 
right.  He  was  assured  that  it  was  a  perfectly  genuine  half- 
crown,  and  at  his  request  they  readily  exchanged  it  for 
another. 

Then  the  coiner  explained  he  could  make  as  many  as  he 
chose,  but  he  wanted  a  few  pounds  to  buy  "  the  stuff."  The 
cupidity  of  the  shopkeeper  was  aroused,  and  he  agreed  to 
supply  the  money  on  the  understanding  he  was  to  get  half 
the  profit.  The  coiner  got  five  pounds  on  account  and 
instantly  vanished  with  his  apparatus.  But  his  enraged 


PRACTICE  AT  THE  BAR  145 

and  deluded  confederate  put  the  police  on  his  track,  and  he 
was  brought  to  trial  at  the  Sligo  Assizes. 

The  case  was  a  puzzling  one.  I  could  not  understand 
how  the  man  with  the  rude  contrivance  I  held  in  my  hand 
could  make  a  half-crown  so  perfect  as  to  deceive  the  bank. 
Closely  examining  the  wooden  press,  I  suddenly  lit  on  the 
solution  of  the  mystery. 

The  hole  in  the  wood  into  which  the  white  metal  was 
poured  did  not  run  into  the  mould  at  all,  but  lodged  it  in  a 
cavity  at  the  back.  In  the  mould  itself  a  genuine  half-crown 
had  been  surreptitiously  placed  before  the  operation  com- 
menced. When  the  coin  had  been  sufficiently  heated  by  the 
molten  metal  at  the  back,  the  mould  was  opened  and  the 
good  half-crown  triumphantly  displayed. 

My  client  was  indicted  for  coining,  but  obtaining  money 
on  false  pretences  was  the  crime  of  which  he  was  actually 
guilty.  As  there  was  neither  attempt  nor  intent  to  coin  he 
could  not  be  convicted  on  the  indictment.  I  explained  the 
trick  in  court,  and  the  prisoner  was  acquitted  and  discharged 
by  the  direction  of  the  judge. 

One  other  case  in  which  I  was  engaged  by  my  friend 
Tom  O'Meara  is  worth  recalling  on  account  of  the  curious 
result  of  our  victory.  The  names  of  the  parties  have  escaped 
my  memory,  which  keeps  a  tight  hold  of  the  facts,  but  the 
names  are  not  material. 

A  very  old  pedlar,  whom  I  shall  call  Sullivan  (I  think  that 
was  the  name),  had  amassed  the  sum  of  £1800,  which  he  kept 
in  bank  on  deposit  receipt.  He  took  sick  on  his  beat  and 
was  received  into  the  house  of  a  farmer  named  Flanagan, 
when  he  died,  and  a  few  days  after  his  death  a  will  was 
produced  in  which  he  left  "  all  he  died  possessed  of  "  to 
Flanagan. 

Another  farmer  named  Sullivan  came  to  my  friend 
O'Meara  with  instructions  to  enter  a  caveat,  alleging  that 
he  was  next  of  kin  of  the  deceased  pedlar ;  and  I  was 
engaged  on  his  behalf  to  dispute  the  will. 

Very  early  in  the  trial  I  convinced  myself  that  the  will 
was  an  absolute  forgery,  and  that  we  would  have  no  difficulty 
in  setting  it  aside.  My  suspicions  were  confirmed  when, 


146     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

during  the  lunch  hour,  the  solicitor  on  the  other  side  ap- 
proached my  friend  with  an  offer  to  pay  £1000  and  costs 
between  solicitor  and  client  if  the  opposition  was  with- 
drawn. On  this  offer  I  declined  to  give  any  opinion 
beyond  stating  my  belief  that  the  will  could  not  stand. 
The  case  proceeded  and  the  will  was  set  aside  with  costs. 

Now  comes  the  startling  result.  Our  client  subsequently 
failed  to  prove  himself  any  relation  to  the  deceased  pedlar. 
He  never  touched  a  farthing  of  the  assets,  the  entire  property 
passed  to  the  Crown,  and  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty 
we  got  our  costs  allowed  as  a  salvage  claim. 

Had  the  compromise  been  accepted,  two  people,  neither 
of  whom  had  the  slightest  claim,  legal  or  moral,  would  have 
divided  the  money  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  NEW   DEPARTURE 

William  O'Brien,  writer,  orator,  agitator — United  Ireland — My  first 
connection  with  the  paper — Coercion — A  unique  newspaper — Lord 
Clanricarde  and  Sanguinette — A  curious  apology — Defiance  and 
immunity. 

THOUGH  always  a  convinced  and  outspoken  Home 
Ruler,  I  had,  before  I  was  called  to  the  Bar,  taken 
little  share  in  politics  beyond  what  came  in  the  way  of  my 
duty  as  a  writer  and  reporter  on  a  Nationalist  newspaper. 
I  was  settling  down  to  a  jog-trot  career  at  the  Bar,  with  a 
steadily  growing  practice  and  income,  when  my  friend 
William  O'Brien  called  on  me  in  my  rooms  in  Henrietta 
Street  and  altered  the  whole  tenor  of  my  life. 

He  had  been  a  colleague  of  mine  on  the  Freeman's  Journal, 
and  had  been  generally  regarded  as  the  most  brilliant 
member  on  the  staff.  But  he  was,  above  all  things,  a 
fervent  Nationalist,  and  had  been  induced  by  Mr.  Parnell 
to  abandon  the  Freeman  and  to  found  and  edit  United  Ireland 
as  a  weekly  campaign  sheet  for  the  National  movement. 

Perhaps  this  is  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  describe  this  very 
remarkable  man,  who  has  played  so  strenuous  a  part  in  the 
recent  history  of  Ireland. 

When  I  first  met  him  on  the  Freeman's  Journal  staff  he 
gave  me  the  idea  of  being  a  student  rather  than  an  orator 
or  agitator.  He  had  a  rooted  repugnance  to  public  speaking. 
I  remember  once  his  surprise  in  those  early  days  that  I 
could  eat  my  dinner  comfortably  at  some  little  Press 
festivity  when  I  was  down  as  one  of  the  speakers  on  the 
toast  list.  Such  an  ordeal,  he  assured  me,  would  most 
efficiently  spoil  his  appetite.  He  was  afterwards  to  become 
the  greatest  platform  speaker  of  his  day,  the  greatest  that 

H7 


148     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Ireland  has  known  since  O'Connell,  an  orator  whose  words 
could  inspire  his  audience  with  an  enthusiasm  almost 
amounting  to  frenzy.  Yet  he  has  often  told  me  that  his 
repugnance  to  public  speaking  has  not  diminished  in  the 
least,  that  a  speech  is  still  for  him  as  painful  an  ordeal  as 
ever.  As  an  agitator  he  was  unsurpassed.  His  fiery 
earnestness  carried  all  before  it.  Absolutely  fearless,  he  was 
ready  for  any  sacrifice,  and  when  he  led  all  were  prepared 
to  follow,  doubts  and  fears  forgotten.  Lowell's  description 
of  Lincoln  fits  him  like  a  glove  : — 

He  could  not  see  but  just  one  side, 
If  his  'twas  God's,  and  that  was  plenty. 
And  so  his  "  forward  "  multiplied 
One  army's  fighting  weight  to  twenty. 

This  was  the  man  that  came  to  me  one  evening  as  I  sat, 
over  my  briefs  and  law  books  in  a  great  lofty  room  with 
the  ceiling  like  the  top  of  a  wedding-cake,  at  a  huge  round 
mahogany  table  (I  have  it  still),  which  was  once  the  dining- 
table  of  Lord  Mount  joy. 

He  wanted  to  consult  me  on  a  question  of  law.  A  man 
named  Hynes  had  just  been  convicted  of  murder  (unjustly 
convicted,  it  was  believed)  by  a  packed  jury  and  had  been 
hanged,  to  the  last  protesting  innocence  on  the  scaffold, 
and  O'Brien  had  written  a  strong  article  on  the  subject  for 
United  Ireland.  At  the  time  he  wanted  to  keep  within  the 
law,  to  give  the  Castle  no  reasonable  pretext  for  a  prose- 
cution, and  he  invited  me,  as  a  lawyer,  to  revise  the 
article.  Ultimately  I  persuaded  him  it  was  best  to  put  the 
protest  in  verse  form,  which  I  wrote  then  and  there.  I  only 
remember  the  last  verse  : 

"  Not  guilty,"  he  said,  looking  death  in  the  face 

On  the  brink  of  the  grave  where  he  stood. 
"  Not  guilty,  but  you  who  have  compassed  my  death, 

You  are  guilty  of  innocent  blood." 

It  was  my  first  contribution  to  United  Ireland,  but  before 
O'Brien  left  that  night  he  had  persuaded  me  to  write  an 
occasional  leading  article  for  the  paper.  I  objected  that  I 
was  too  busy  with  the  law,  but  there  was  no  resisting 
O'Brien  when  he  had  his  heart  set  on  anything.  I  did  not 


i  o  I 

<4 

i  o  '= 

13  O  a 

.5  O  .2 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE  149 

then  foresee  as  the  result  of  my  promise  I  should  in  a  short 
time  become,  and  continue  for  many  years,  the  acting 
editor  and  chief  writer  of  United  Ireland. 

It  came  about  this  way.  Mr.  Balfour  started  his  coercion 
campaign  in  Ireland,  and  William  O'Brien  at  once  set 
himself  to  the  task  of  opposing  it  and  defeating  it. 

Naturally  he  was  one  of  the  first  victims,  and  on  his 
imprisonment  he  refused  to  wear  the  prison  clothes.  One 
night  his  own  clothes  were  stolen  while  he  slept,  but  a  few 
days  later  he  contrived  to  have  a  new  suit  introduced  into 
his  cell,  and  no  further  attempt  was  made  to  compel  him  to 
wear  the  prisoners'  dress. 

The  whole  incident  created  immense  excitement  in  Ireland. 
"  The  O'Brien  tweed  "  was  the  only  wear  for  National- 
ists. In  the  first  of  two  cartoons  in  United  Ireland  Mr. 
Balfour  was  depicted  as  a  turnkey  stealing  the  clothes 
while  O'Brien  slept.  The  other  displayed  his  grotesque 
amazement  at  finding  his  victim  reclothed.  Ridicule  is  a 
most  fatal  weapon  in  Ireland ;  the  incident  was  a  sharp 
blow  for  the  coercion  administration. 

But  it  will  be  easily  understood  that  this  protracted  duel 
left  William  O'Brien  little  time  to  edit  United  Ireland  or 
write  its  editorials,  and  so  that  burden  gradually  shifted 
itself  on  to  my  shoulders. 

In  all  newspaper  literature  there  was  never  a  paper  like 
United  Ireland.  It  disdained  advertisements  and  neglected 
all  news  except  the  news  directly  connected  with  the 
National  movement.  It  lived  and  flourished  by  its  editorials 
and  cartoons  alone,  and  it  had  a  circulation  of  over  a 
hundred  thousand  copies,  a  circulation  never  equalled 
before  or  since  by  any  Irish  newspaper.  For  several  years, 
right  up  to  the  Parnell  split,  I  was  acting  editor  and  almost 
sole  editorial  writer  of  United  Ireland. 

I  wrote  a  weekly  page  of  editorials,  and  suggested  in 
detail  the  cartoon  depicting  the  chief  political  event  of 
the  week.  During  those  coercion  days  Mr.  Balfour  was,  of 
course,  the  chief  figure  in  our  cartoons,  some  of  which  are 
perhaps  worth  reproducing.  From  a  popular  play  came 
the  suggestion  of  our  Private  Secretary,  who  did  not  like 


150     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

Dublin.  After  William  O'Brien's  clothes  were  stolen  in 
prison  Mr.  Balfour  was  always  depicted  as  the  thief. 

All  this  time  Mr.  O'Brien  remained  editor  of  the  paper 
and  responsible  for  its  contents.  Once,  when  he  was  carried 
off  to  prison,  there  was  next  day  a  letter  to  him  at  the  office 
from  an  estimable  and  sympathetic  parish  priest  to  say  he 
had  at  once  "  missed  his  brilliant  pen  from  the  pages  of  the 
paper."  O'Brien  had  not  written  a  line  for  the  paper  for 
six  months  previously.  Such  is  the  power  of  imagination  ! 

United  Ireland  was  conducted  in  defiance  of  the  law  of 
libel.  That  is  to  say,  that  we  told  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  and  took  the  consequences. 
The  result  was  eminently  satisfactory.  During  the  years 
that  I  was  acting  editor  of  the  paper  we  had  many  threats 
of  a  libel  action,  but  no  action. 

Only  once  in  my  time  was  an  apology  printed  in  the 
paper,  and  that  was  under  circumstances  so  peculiar  that  it 
deserves  to  be  recorded. 

"  The  most  noble  "  the  Marquis  of  Clanricarde  was  the 
subject  of  many  attacks  in  United  Ireland.  It  was  rumoured 
that  his  lordship  lent  money  at  high  interest,  and  we  rashly 
confounded  him  with  that  famous  and  more  appropriately 
named  money-lender,  Sanguinette. 

One  morning  I  found  at  the  office  a  long  and  eloquently 
worded  protest  from  Sanguinette.  He  bitterly  complained 
of  being  in  any  way  identified  or  connected  with  the  Marquis 
of  Clanricarde,  and  enclosed  his  photograph  as  proof  of  his 
identity,  demanding,  "  in  the  interest  of  fair  play,  on  which 
your  paper  prides  itself,"  an  ample  apology. 

Thereupon  United  Ireland  published  its  first  and  last 
apology,  humble  and  ample.  "  It  was  a  gross  insult,"  I 
wrote,  "  to  compare  even  the  most  merciless  usurer  with  the 
most  noble  Marquis  of  Clanricarde.  We  could  easily 
understand,"  we  declared,  "  Mr.  Sanguinette's  indignation 
at  so  invidious  a  comparison.  We  willingly  withdraw  the 
charge,  and  apologize  to  Mr.  Sanguinette  for  having 
made  it." 

United  Ireland  in  my  time  had  not  only  immunity  from 
libel  actions,  but,  stranger  still,  it  had  immunity  from 


Cartoon  from  "  United  Ireland,"  Oct.  16,  18 

OUR  PRIVATE  SECRETARY 


p.  150 


A  NEW  DEPARTURE  151 

coercion  prosecutions.  Amongst  the  offences  created  by 
the  Coercion  Act  was  the  attending  of  a  meeting  of  a  "sup- 
pressed branch  "  of  the  National  League,  or  publishing  any 
report  of  the  proceedings.  It  did  not  matter  in  the  least 
how  innocent  of  all  offence  might  be  the  nature  of  the 
proceedings  or  the  report.  The  essence  of  the  crime  lay  in  the 
proclamation.  There  was  no  "  offence  "  under  the  Coercion 
Act  more  zealously  prosecuted  or  punished.  T.  D.  Sullivan, 
then  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin,  got  six  months'  imprison- 
ment for  the  publication  of  one  of  those  harmless  reports  in 
his  paper ;  and  Mr.  John  Hooper,  Mayor  of  Cork,  a  similar 
sentence  for  a  similar  publication. 

Nor  was  that  the  worst.  Reporters  were  imprisoned  for 
writing  the  reports,  compositors  were  imprisoned  for 
printing  them,  and  newsboys  for  selling  copies  of  the  papers 
that  contained  them.  All  that  time  United  Ireland  weekly 
published  a  full  page  of  the  proceedings  of  every  suppressed 
branch  in  Ireland. 

I  remember  well  the  foreman  printer,  Mr.  Donnelly,  who 
was  a  kind  of  factotum  in  the  office,  consulting  me  as  to  what 
was  to  be  done  in  regard  to  these  forbidden  reports. 

"  Put  them,"  I  said,  "  under  a  big  heading,  '  SUPPRESSED 
BRANCHES,'  in  the  front  page  of  the  paper." 

For  three  years  they  were  printed  and  published  within 
a  mile  of  the  Castle  with  absolute  impunity,  while  every 
other  Nationalist  paper  was  harassed  with  prosecution. 

I  have  often  tried  since  to  calculate  how  many  hundred 
years'  imprisonment  I  earned  by  those  reports.  But  the 
sum  was  beyond  me.  Anyhow,  I  got  none. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION 

A  letter  from  O'Brien — The  Forgeries  Commission — Contempt  of  court 
and  what  came  of  it — Incidents  of  the  Coercion  Courts — Withdrawing 
the  tone — The  stealing  of  the  informations — Mr.  Balfour  and  the 
midwife — A  comical  conflict — Evading  service — Caught ! 

NEVER  had  a  man  a  kindlier  or  more  encouraging 
chief  than  O'Brien  during  the  years  I  acted  as  his 
deputy  in  the  editorial  chair  of  United  Ireland.  In  all  the 
numerous  letters  I  received  from  him  during  that  time  I 
find  words  of  encouragement  and  approval,  in  a  few  sugges- 
tion, in  none  complaint.  I  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  offer  a 
single  sample  of  the  correspondence.  The  following  letter  he 
contrived  to  slip  out  to  me  from  Galway  Jail  on  May  4th, 
1889.  It  is  written  in  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  tissue-paper  : — 

"  GALWAY  JAIL, 
"  Saturday  night, 

"  May  qth,  1889. 
"  MY  DEAR  MAT, 

"  Glad  to  have  a  chance  of  blowing  a  greeting  to  you. 
I  am  deprived  of  only  two  luxuries — the  sight  of  newspapers 
and  of  ladies.  At  a  paper  I  do  manage  to  get  a  rare — and  only 
a  rare — peep,  but  you  will  not  be  sorry,  I  hope,  to  hear  that 
every  number  of  U.I.  I  have  seen  does  you  infinite  credit 
and  has  raised  higher  and  higher  my  belief  in  your  vigour, 
wit  and  sense.  I  cannot  give  you  any  better  advice  than 
fire  away  and  God  bless  you  (and  my  little  godchild,  as  I 
seem  fated  not  to  be  able  to  send  any  better  marks  of 
paternal  interest  than  a  blessing).  Ask  Whelan  to  hunt  up 
for  me  a  copy  of  my  pamphlet  '  Christmas  on  the  Galtees,' 
in  my  black  tin  case  at  the  hotel ;  also  report  in  Freeman 
of  my  first  speech  in  Parliament  (about  March,  1883),  and 

152 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  153 

send  them  on  to  Harrington  or  whatever  London  prison  I 
may  be  sent  to.  Kindest  regards  to  Donnelly  and  all  the 
fellows.  Ever  your  friend, 

"  W.  O'B. 

"  I  have  written  half  an  Irish  novel — how  delighted 
Balfour  will  be  to  hear  it — but  I  am  very  doubtful  whether 
the  best  place  for  the  MS.  would  not  be  the  fire.  I  should 
like  to  have  your  opinion,  it  is  such  a  ticklish  experiment. 

"  W.  O'B." 

Yet  the  solitary  personal  request  that  I  made  to  O'Brien 
in  my  character  of  acting  editor  of  United  Ireland  he 
peremptorily  refused.  It  came  about  in  this  way. 

The  Times  Commission,  always  described  in  United 
Ireland  as  "  the  Forgeries  Commission,"  was  then  in  full 
swing.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Commission  was 
appointed  mainly,  if  not  solely,  to  investigate  the  genuine- 
ness of  several  documents  published  in  The  Times  and 
alleged  to  be  "  facsimiles  of  letters "  written  by  Mr. 
Parnell,  clearly  implicating  him  in  the  Phcenix  Park  murders. 
But  The  Times,  when  the  Commission  was  appointed, 
shirked  the  issue  of  the  letters,  and  devoted  month  after 
month  to  raking  up  agrarian  offences  in  Ireland,  endeavour- 
ing to  connect  them  with  the  National  organization  of 
which  Mr.  Parnell  was  the  head.  There  was  naturally  great 
impatience  amongst  Irish  Nationalists  at  this  delay  in 
attempting  to  substantiate  the  direct  and  deadly  charge 
made  against  the  Irish  leader.  After  the  dilatory  pro- 
ceedings had  dragged  their  slow  length  for  some  months,  I 
attempted  to  quicken  the  pace  of  the  Commission  by  a 
leader  and  cartoon  in  United  Ireland. 

In  the  cartoon  was  depicted  a  long  train  of  the  Irish 
Constabulary  wheeling  up  barrow-loads  of  rubbish  with 
which  they  were  burying  the  judges,  while  the  forged 
letters  were  hidden  away  under  a  tombstone. 

In  the  article  I  strongly  denounced  The  Times  as  the 
"  forger,"  and  roundly  declared  it  was  shirking  the  investiga- 
tion of  the  letters  because  it  knew  them  to  be  forged. 

There  was   an   immediate    application    by   The   Times 


154     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

against  the  editor  of  United  Ireland  for  contempt  of  court, 
and  a  conditional  order  was  made  by  the  Commission  that 
he  should  appear  and  show  cause  why  he  should  not  be 
fined  and  imprisoned. 

This  was  just  before  the  court  adjourned  for  a  fortnight. 
The  cause  was  to  be  shown  on  the  resumption  of  the  sitting. 

Meanwhile  I  had  an  interview  with  William  O'Brien,  and 
begged  as  a  personal  favour  that  I  should  be  allowed  to  take 
the  defence  of  the  article  I  had  written  on  my  own  shoulders. 
I  assured  him  that  I  had  written  it  with  the  hope  of  proceed- 
ings and  with  a  view  to  its  defence.  The  gravamen  of  the 
charge  was  that  The  Times  had  been  called  the  "  forger  " 
and  the  letters  "  forgeries,"  in  anticipation  of  the  decision  of 
the  Commission.  But,  I  argued  The  Times  was  guilty  of 
equal  contempt  of  court  in  constantly  alluding  to  the 
letters  as  "  facsimiles  "  of  original  letters  of  Mr.  Parnell's. 

I  urged  in  vain.  It  was  impossible,  O'Brien  said,  that  he 
could  allow  anyone  but  himself  to  take  the  responsibility 
for  United  Ireland. 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,"  he  added,  "  you  have  done  me  a 
personal  service.  There  are  half  a  dozen  Coercion  summonses 
and  warrants  out  against  me  at  present.  If  I  am  caught 
first  by  The  Times  I  will  be  treated  as  a  first-class  mis- 
demeanant, which  is  luxury  compared  to  the  lot  of  a 
Coercion  Court  prisoner." 

His  first  idea  was  to  treat  the  whole  procedure  with 
contempt,  and  to  decline  to  attend.  But  I  convinced  him 
that  we  had  so  strong  a  case  that  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to 
make  it.  His  defence  was  a  complete  triumph.  The 
conditional  order  was  discharged,  and  for  very  shame  sake 
The  Times  was  compelled  to  produce  the  forged  letters,  which 
were  instantly  exposed.  The  result  was  the  collapse  of  the 
case,  the  disgrace  of  The  Times,  the  suicide  of  the  forger, 
Pigott,  and  the  complete  vindication  of  Parnell. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  while  engaged  on  United 
Ireland  I  neglected  the  legal  profession.  The  battle  against 
Coercion  was  fought  in  the  courts  as  well  as  in  the  newspaper 
office,  and  in  a  number  of  strange  and  exciting  cases  I  was 
counsel  for  the  defence. 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  155 

Very  early  in  the  campaign  against  eviction,  I  was 
engaged  as  counsel  to  defend  a  number  of  tenants  in  the 
County  of  Wexford,  who  had  made  a  vigorous  stand  against 
eviction  by  the  emergency  forces.  Mr.  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt's 
volume  of  vivid  description  of  the  Land  Wars  in  Ireland  has 
an  interesting  allusion  to  the  case : — 

"  At  Gorey  we  went  straight  to  the  court-house  with  a 
number  of  priests  and  others  to  be  present  at  the  trial.  The 
prisoners  were  half  a  dozen  men  and  four  women,  who  had 
defended  their  homes  against  the  sheriff's  officers,  very 
respectable  people  to  all  appearance  ;  and  the  first  girl, 
Mary  Macdonnell,  put  on  her  trial  was  only  seventeen.  She 
sat  next  to  me,  and  I  asked  her  about  her  relations.  There 
are  no  boys  in  the  family,  and  she  defended  the  place  by 
throwing  hot  gruel  on  the  bailiffs.  She  looked  barely  her 
age,  a  blushing  child  of  the  shepherdess  kind,  or  rather  like 
one  of  Morland's  milkmaids.  She  had  really  done  the 
thing  and  scalded  one  of  the  men,  but  Bodkin,  who  defended 
her,  managed  to  make  the  whole  case  so  ridiculous  that  they 
let  her  off.  The  chairman  of  the  court  was  Lord  Courtown, 
who  accidentally  happened  to  be  President  of  the  Property 
Defence  Association,  whose  secretary  was  Captain  Hamilton, 
the  agent  and  evictor,  and  this  Bodkin  took  hold  of  very 
cleverly  and  to  such  effect  that  it  was  almost  impossible  the 
Bench  should  convict  any  one.  I  never  was  more  struck 
than  to-day  with  the  cleverness  of  all  the  Irish  concerned 
in  these  cases  and  the  dullness  of  the  Englishmen,  or  rather  of 
the  landlords  and  their  semi-English  retainers.  .  .  .  After 
the  sessions  we  adjourned  to  the  inn  and  sat  down,  some 
twenty  of  us,  to  dinner,  when  songs  followed  and  speeches, 
my  health  being  drunk  and  Bodkin's.  Bodkin,  who  is  a  very 
amusing  man  and  really  good  fellow,  has  lately  been  acting 
as  editor  of  United  Ireland  in  O'Brien's  absence.  He  con- 
siders O'Brien's  visit  to  Canada,  on  the  whole,  a  success, 
but  this  is  not  everybody's  opinion,  notably  not  Davitt's, 
though  they  are  all  fond  of  O'Brien.  .  .  .  Drove  down 
before  breakfast  with  Bodkin  to  the  sea  to  bathe.  There 
was  not  a  ripple  on  the  surface,  and  we  jumped  in  off  a  rock 
into  several  feet  of  water.  Bodkin  tells  me  they  have  often 


156     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

asked  him  to  go  into  Parliament,  he  is  really  as  clever  a  man 
and  speaker  as  any  of  them,  but  he  cannot  afford  it  as  he  has 
his  living  to  make  ;  but  as  soon  as  there  is  a  Parliament  in 
Dublin  he  will  stand.  He  is  far  from  a  revolutionist  in  his 
ideas,  and  considers  that  the  landlords  will  be  of  great  use, 
politically,  to  Ireland  in  the  first  years  of  Home  Rule.  The 
only  wonder  to  my  mind  is  how  few  landlords  have  joined 
the  cause.  But  the  truth  is  there  is  a  monstrous  class 
prejudice  and  a  prejudice  of  religion." 

I  share  Mr.  Blunt's  wonder  that  the  great  body  of  Irish 
landlords  have  held  aloof  from  the  Home  Rule  movement ; 
and  I  still  hold  my  belief  that  they  will  receive,  not  merely 
full  fair  play,  but  a  great  deal  of  favour  in  an  Irish  Parlia- 
ment. 

A  little  later  I  was  engaged  to  defend  in  a  case  of  greater 
importance.  The  Woodfort  tenants  of  the  Marquis  of 
Clanricarde  were  indicted  for  resistance  to  eviction.  The 
cases,  which  excited  intense  interest  at  the  time,  were 
tried  in  Sligo,  and  I  was  engaged  with  the  late  Mr.  Leamy, 
M.P.,  as  counsel  for  the  defence.  We  began  by  challenging 
the  array,  and  succeeded  in  having  the  whole  jury  panel  set 
aside  as  improperly  drawn.  The  incident  was  commemorated 
by  a  cartoon  in  United  Ireland.  The  next  time  the  jury 
packing  was  done  in  open  court  by  the  Crown  Solicitor. 
The  Catholic  jurors  were  ordered  to  stand  aside  by  the 
hundred,  and  Protestants  and  Unionists  only  were  admitted 
to  the  jury  box.  Mr.  Leamy  and  myself  left  the  court  as  a 
protest,  and  after  we  left  the  Protestant  jurors  declined  to 
convict.  It  was  on  that  occasion  that  the  Chief  Justice, 
Lord  O'Brien  of  Kilfonora,  then  Serjeant  O'Brien,  Q.C.,  got 
the  nickname  of  "  Pether  the  Packer,"  by  which  he  is 
better  known  than  by  his  title  in  Ireland. 

But  it  was  mainly  in  courts  especially  constituted  under 
the  Coercion  Act  that  Nationalists  were  attacked  and 
defended.  These  courts,  as  I  have  said,  consisted  of  two 
paid  magistrates,  declared  by  Mr.  Morley  to  be  "  Removable 
and  Promo vable  "  by  the  Government.  "  Removables  " 
they  were  dubbed  by  United  Ireland,  and  the  name  stuck. 

It  must,  indeed,  be  confessed  that  Nationalist  counsel 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  157 

were  not  over-polite  to  the  "  Removables,"  who  frequently 
retorted  in  kind  by  having  them  fired  out  of  court.  Mr. 
Healy,  for  example,  was  twice  hurled  out  by  the  police. 
Looking  back  over  my  own  exploits  before  the  magistrates, 
I  wonder  how  I  escaped  a  similar  fate. 

It  was  provided  in  the  Act  that  the  Lord-Lieutenant  must 
be  "  satisfied  with  the  legal  knowledge  "  of  one  of  the  two 
magistrates,  but  it  was  not  specified  how  that  "  satisfac- 
tion "  was  to  be  acquired.  The  other  magistrate  might  be 
assumed  to  be  wholly  ignorant  of  law. 

In  one  of  those  Coercion  cases,  as  counsel  for  the  defence, 
I  somewhat  fluttered  the  court  by  politely  inquiring  which 
of  the  two  magistrates  was  "  the  gentleman  of  the  sufficiency 
of  whose  legal  knowledge  the  Lord-Lieutenant  was  satisfied." 
One  of  the  two  touched  himself  on  the  breast,  and  coyly 
murmured,  "  I  am  the  person,"  while  his  colleague  blushed 
like  a  schoolgirl. 

But  the  Crown  Prosecutor  in  his  speech  took  the  Bench 
under  his  protection,  and  declared  the  magistrates  a  tribunal 
infinitely  superior  to  the  old-fashioned  system  of  trial  by 
jury. 

On  that  hint  I  spake,  and  drew  a  contemptuous 
comparison  between  the  great  constitutional  tribunal,  the 
palladium  of  the  people's  liberty,  and  a  "  brace  of  hired 
Government  officials,"  "  one  of  whom  in  some  mysterious 
manner  had  satisfied  the  Viceroy  of  his  knowledge  of  the 
law." 

I  was  sternly  interrupted  by  the  magistrates,  and  called 
upon  for  an  instant  withdrawal  and  apology. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  suspense,  for  those 
were  days,  as  I  have  already  said,  when  defendant's  counsel 
were  constantly  fired  out  of  court  by  the  police. 

"  I  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  I  replied,  with  a 
conciliatory  smile.  "  I  described  you  as  '  hired  Govern- 
ment officials.'  Are  you  not  Government  officials  ?  Are 
you  not  hired  ?  Are  you  ashamed  of  your  position  ?  To 
what  can  you  object  ?  " 

"  We  object  to  the  whole  tone,"  blundered  out  one  of  the 
magistrates  furiously. 


158     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  Oh,  now  I  understand.  Then,  your  worships,  I  willingly 
withdraw  the  tone.  A  brace  of  hired  Government  officials," 
I  repeated  in  a  voice  as  soft  as  the  cooing  of  a  turtle-dove. 
"  Will  that  do  ?  Thank  you,"  and  before  the  court  had 
recovered  from  its  bewilderment  I  had  resumed  the  even 
tenor  of  my  speech. 

On  another  occasion  I  defended  Mr.  Cox,  M.P.,  and  Mr. 
T.  P.  Gill,  M.P.,  before  a  Coercion  court  in  Dundalk  and,  an 
almost  unique  experience,  defended  them  successfully. 
My  knowledge  of  shorthand  helped  me  to  an  effective  cross- 
examination  of  the  constable,  who  purported  to  take  down 
the  speeches  for  which  the  Members  of  Parliament  were 
tried.  The  result  was  the  complete  and  palpable  collapse 
of  evidence. 

There  were  a  number  of  English  magistrates  in  court, 
who  had  come  over  to  see  for  themselves  the  working  of  the 
Coercion  Act  in  Ireland. 

When  my  turn  came  to  speak,  I  turned  my  back  to  the 
court  and  addressed  myself  to  the  English  magistrates 
instead  of  the  Removables.  I  pointed  to  the  utter  collapse 
of  the  prosecution.  "  You,  gentlemen,"  I  concluded,  "  are 
impartial  English  magistrates,  independent  of  the  executive. 
If  you  had  to  try  this  case  you  would  unanimously  and 
unhesitatingly  acquit  my  clients,  and  transfer  the  perjured 
constable  from  the  witness-table  to  the  dock." 

In  a  row  the  Englishmen  nodded  their  assent,  while  the 
poor  Removables  looked  on  in  dismay.  Then  they  retired 
to  consider  their  decision,  and  to  the  amazement  of  every- 
one acquitted  the  accused. 

None  were  more  astonished  at  the  result  than  the  accused 
themselves.  When  the  magistrates  retired  Mr.  Cox  went 
out  to  have  a  drink,  the  last,  as  he  whispered  to  me,  that  he 
would  have  the  chance  of  having  for  some  months." 

By  the  time  he  got  back  the  case  was  over  and  the 
decision  announced. 

"  How  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied ;  "  you  are  acquitted." 

He  laughed  in  my  face.  The  thing  was  incredible.  I  had 
to  swear  it  was  true  before  he  would  believe  me. 


THE   HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  159 

One  incident  in  connection  with  this  trial  exhibits  the 
comic  character  of  the  government  of  Ireland  in  those  days. 
Some  hundreds  of  police,  with  rifles  and  fowling-pieces, 
were  drafted  into  Dundalk  where  the  trial  was  heard.  They 
were  invading  troops  in  a  hostile  country,  rigidly  boycotted 
by  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  town  whom  they  had  come 
"  to  protect  from  intimidation."  Outcasts  and  pariahs, 
food,  drink  and  every  form  of  accommodation  was  refused 
them. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  "  criminals "  were  honoured 
guests,  feted  and  cheered  by  the  entire  population.  The 
day  before  the  trial  they  were  invited  to  lunch  with  the 
Mayor,  and  I,  as  their  counsel,  was  included  in  the  invitation. 
In  the  midst  of  the  sumptuous  repast  a  mysterious  message 
was  conveyed  to  the  Mayor,  who  presided.  He  left  the 
room  for  a  moment,  and  after  lunch  he  desired  a  private 
consultation  with  the  criminals  and  myself. 

It  turned  out  that  he  had  had  an  interview  with  the  Inspector 
in  charge  of  the  police.  To  understand  the  incongruous 
character  of  the  Inspector's  mission  to  the  Mayor,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  Mr.  Balfour's  policy,  as  explained  to 
Mr.  Wilfrid  Blunt,  was  to  treat  the  political  opponents 
captured  in  the  net  of  coercion  as  degraded  criminals.  That 
was  all  very  well  for  Mr.  Balfour  living  in  another  country, 
but  the  home  atmosphere  of  admiration  in  which  those 
men  were  the  most  honoured  of  the  community  was  too 
strong.  The  Inspector's  better  feeling  revolted  against 
conveying  two  respected  Members  of  Parliament  on  a 
common  outside  car  from  the  court  to  the  railway  station 
on  their  way  to  jail,  which  no  one  doubted  was  their  ultimate 
destination. 

He  applied  at  the  principal  hotel  for  a  carriage  and  pair, 
but  the  hotel  proprietor  curtly  refused  to  have  any  inter- 
course with  the  pariah.  His  interview  with  the  Mayor  was 
to  induce  him  to  plead  with  Mr.  Gill,  as  Member  for  the 
Division,  to  allow  the  boycott  to  be  raised  for  the  purpose  of 
procuring  a  carriage  for  himself  and  his  fellow-criminal. 
Mr.  Gill  graciously  consented,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting 
at  the  court-house  when  the  trial  concluded,  and  drove 


160     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

the  criminals  through  cheering  crowds  not  to  the  station  on 
their  way  to  jail,  but  to  the  residence  of  the  Mayor. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  and  exciting  of  the  Coercion 
cases  in  which  I  was  engaged  was  a  trial  of  Mr.  William 
O'Brien  at  Loughrea,  in  which  I  had  Mr.  Healy  as  colleague 
for  the  defence. 

After  the  Coercion  Act  had  been  some  years  in  full  swing, 
Mr.  Balfour,  in  a  reckless  moment,  boasted  at  a  public 
meeting  that  "  the  Irish  National  League  was  a  thing  of 
the  past." 

Mr.  O'Brien  instantly  took  up  the  challenge.  He  called  a 
public  meeting  at  Loughrea,  which  was  perhaps  the  best 
proclaimed  district  in  Ireland.  An  enormous  crowd  attended 
the  meeting  from  all  parts  of  the  County  of  Galway.  But 
an  army  of  soldiers  and  constabulary  was  poured  into  the 
town,  the  demonstration  was  proclaimed  and  suppressed, 
and  Mr.  O'Brien  was  prosecuted  by  Mr.  Balfour  for  attending 
a  meeting  of  the  very  league  which  Mr.  Balfour  himself  had 
just  declared  to  be  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Mr.  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt  accompanied  O'Brien  and  his 
counsel  and  solicitor  to  Loughrea.  In  his  book  on  "  The 
Land  War  in  Ireland,"  to  which  allusion  has  already  been 
made,  he  writes  : — 

"  April  26.  We  started  by  an  early  train  for  Woodtown 
(Loughrea),  O'Brien,  Healy,  Chance,  Bodkin  and  myself.  A 
merry  party  we  were.  You  would  think  we  were  going  to  a 
wedding  rather  than  to  a  trial,  but  the  Irish  have  the 
blessing  of  high  spirits  and  no  one  more  so  than  O'Brien." 

I  remember  well  as  we  walked  together  up  a  long,  steep 
hill  to  ease  the  horse,  O'Brien  picked  himself  a  nosegay  of 
primroses  under  the  hedgerows,  declaring  that  he  was  not 
going  to  abandon  the  sweetest  of  wild  flowers  to  the  enemy — 
this  when  he  was  on  the  way  to  an  inevitable  sentence  of 
six  months'  imprisonment. 

Our  line  of  defence  was  peculiar.  To  constitute  a  meeting 
of  a  suppressed  Branch  of  the  League  it  was  necessary,  in 
the  words  of  the  Coercion  Act,  that  the  member  of  the 
League  sought  to  be  incriminated  should  have  attended 
"  as  such." 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  161 

Day  after  day  for  weeks  we  produced  a  battalion  of 
witnesses,  who  each  in  his  turn  swore  :  "I  am  a  member  of 
the  National  League.  Every  respectable  man  in  the  district 
is  a  member  of  the  League.  I  attended  the  meeting,  but  I 
did  not  attend  it  as  such." 

"  Why  did  you  attend  ?  "  was  the  next  question. 

"  To  make  a  liar  of  Balfour." 

Our  object  was,  of  course,  to  cover  the  whole  proceedings 
with  ridicule,  and  we  succeeded.  An  interminable  pro- 
cession of  witnesses  appeared  on  the  table  who  all  swore 
substantially  the  same  thing. 

We  endeavoured,  as  far  as  possible,  to  diversify  the 
proceedings.  Mr.  Healy  and  I  had  a  standing  bet  of  six- 
pence as  to  which  of  us  would  keep  our  witness  (we  examined 
them  turn  about)  longest  on  the  witness  table  replying  to 
wholly  absurd  and  irrelevant  questions. 

We  carried  the  game  on  openly  in  the  face  of  the  court, 
with  watches  on  the  table  in  front  of  us,  and  we  passed  the 
money,  or  took  it,  as  we  lost  or  won. 

Every  evening  the  accused  and  his  counsel  were  hospitably 
entertained  by  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Duggan,  the  best  bishop  and 
the  best  Irishman  I  have  ever  met.  To  a  suggestion  made 
by  O'Brien  one  evening  at  dinner  that  we  were  intruding 
unwarrantably  on  his  hospitality,  the  bishop  replied  by 
calling  out  to  the  factotum  who  waited  behind  his  chair  : 

"  Pat,  kill  another  pig." 

Meanwhile  the  unhappy  Removables  vainly  strove  to 
stem  the  overwhelming  flood  of  evidence  that  we  poured 
upon  them. 

To  all  their  remonstrance  Mr.  Healy  or  myself  blandly 
replied  that  if  we  had  succeeded  in  convincing  them  of  our 
client's  innocence  they  had  only  to  say  so,  otherwise  we  must 
continue  to  offer  the  evidence  until  they  were  convinced. 

After  three  weeks  of  this  burlesque,  one  morning  the 
Removables  appeared  in  court,  pale  and  trembling,  to 
announce  that  the  vast  accumulated  pile  of  depositions 
had  been  stolen  overnight. 

Mr.  Healy  had  before  this  been  called  away  to  Dublin, 
and  I  was  then  in  sole  charge.  I  was  surprised,  indignant 

M 


162     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

and  incredulous.  The  depositions,  I  declared,  would 
conclusively  establish  my  client's  innocence  on  appeal. 
They  were  in  charge  of  the  court,  how  had  they  disappeared  ? 
I  demanded  an  opportunity  of  examining  the  magistrates  on 
oath.  As  I  anticipated,  the  longsuffering  Removables  were 
indignant  at  this  suggestion,  and  refusing  further  proof  or 
explanation,  proceeded  to  begin  the  trial  de  novo. 

This  was  exactly  what  I  wanted.  I  cross-examined  no 
witness  for  the  Crown,  and  called  no  witnesses  for  the 
defence.  The  case  was  over  in  a  few  hours,  and  the  accused 
sentenced  to  six  months  with  hard  labour. 

But  there  was  still  left  to  us  the  right  of  appeal  before  a 
division  of  the  superior  court,  presided  over  by  the  Lord 
Chief  Baron,  the  most  conscientious  of  lawyers. 

Under  the  Coercion  Act  the  accused  was  entitled  to  have 
produced  on  appeal  the  whole  of  the  depositions  in  the 
court  below.  The  depositions  were,  of  course,  not  forth- 
coming, and  there  was  no  proof  or  explanation  of  their 
disappearance. 

After  a  long  argument  the  case  was  adjourned  to.  enable 
the  Removables  to  produce  the  depositions,  and  we  heard 
no  more  of  the  charge.  All  Ireland  laughed  at  the  collapse 
of  the  prosecution. 

I  have  been  informed  on  excellent  authority  that  the  one 
thing  in  the  whole  Coercion  campaign  that  really  irritated 
Mr.  Balfour  was  the  libel  action  brought  against  him  by 
the  midwife  Peggy  Dillon.  But  I  am  sure  that  he  has  long 
since  forgotten  his  annoyance  and  is  now  ready  to  laugh  at 
the  incident.  It  happened  in  this  way  : — 

In  his  speech  on  the  introduction  of  the  Coercion  Act, 
Mr.  Balfour  took  occasion  to  refer  to  the  alleged  misconduct 
of  a  midwife  in  the  West  of  Ireland  named  Peggy  Dillon. 
He  detailed  the  alleged  refusal  of  Peggy  to  perform  the 
functions  of  her  office  for  the  wife  of  a  land-grabber,  with  a 
doleful  horror  at  the  obduracy  of  the  midwife  and  with  a 
sympathetic  tenderness  for  the  patient  that  awakened 
roars  of  laughter  in  an  irreverent  House — laughter  which 
the  tender-hearted  Secretary  indignantly  rebuked.  Nothing 
further  was  heard  of  the  incident  for  some  little  time.  The 


Cartoon  from  "  United  Ireland,"  May  12,  1888 

AT  IT  AGAIN 

Balfour  runs  away  with  the  depositions  for  O'Brien's  defences  from  the  Loughrea  court- 
house, as  he  ran  away  with  his  clothes  from  the  prison  cell  at  Tullamore. 

p.    162 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  163 

Coercion  Act  passed,  and  Mr.  Balfour  thought  no  more  of 
the  slandered  midwife. 

But  trouble  was  brewing.  A  sworn  contradiction  was 
first  published  in  the  papers.  Of  this  he  took  no  heed.  A 
letter  from  her  solicitor  demanding  an  apology  was  similarly 
disregarded ;  then  on  April  27th,  1887,  I  was  instructed  to 
apply  to  the  courts  for  liberty  to  serve  a  writ  out  of  the 
jurisdiction.  The  following  are  some  interesting  extracts 
from  the  midwife's  affidavit  on  which  the  motion  was 
founded : — 

"  That  I  am  informed  and  believe  that  the  intended 
defendant,  on  divers  times  and  occasions,  spoke  and  pub- 
lished of  and  concerning  me  in  my  business,  profession  and 
calling,  certain  false  and  slanderous  statements,  to  wit — 
that  I  refused  to  attend  a  woman  in  her  confinement,  on  the 
ground  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a  man  who  worked  for  a 
boycotted  person,  and  that  I  yielded  to  intimidation  or 
undue  influence  in  said  refusal,  and  said  defendant  made  use 
of  said  alleged  refusal  by  me  as  the  principal  argument  in 
favour  of  passing  a  Coercion  Act  for  Ireland. 

"  There  is  no  truth  whatever  in  such  statements.  As  the 
said  intended  defendant  must  have  well  known,  it  is  the 
custom  in  my  profession  to  be  engaged  some  time  before  the 
event,  and  on  the  day  on  which  this  woman's  husband  came 
for  me  I  was  called  to  another  patient,  who  had  previously 
engaged  my  services,  and  whom,  according  to  the  rules  of  my 
profession,  I  was  obliged  to  attend. 

"  That  the  publication  of  the  said  slanders  by  the  said 
intended  defendant  has  greatly  injured  my  character  and 
interfered  with  me  in  the  pursuit  of  my  profession  and 
calling,  and  greatly  decreased  my  practice  and  emoluments, 
and  exposed  me  to  ridicule  and  contempt  from  my  neigh- 
bours, who  are  for  the  most  part  Nationalists  and  who  are, 
naturally,  indignant  that  my  alleged  unfeeling  conduct 
should  have  brought  discredit  on  the  Irish  cause,  and  should 
be  urged  by  the  said  intended  defendant  as  the  main  ground 
for  a  Bill  for  the  Coercion  of  all  Ireland." 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  storm  of  laughter  the  application 
created  in  the  court.  But  Judge  Andrews,  though  a  pro- 


164     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

found  lawyer,  was  the  most  unsuspecting  and  courteous 
of  men.  By  a  miracle  I  kept  my  countenance  while  I 
argued  the  case,  and  he  listened  with  the  utmost  gravity 
while  the  court  shook  with  laughter.  Ultimately  he  suggested 
that  we  should  file  further  affidavits. 

I  was  told  that  when  one  of  his  brother  judges  questioned 
him  as  to  the  cause  of  the  row  in  court,  which  he  had 
overheard  in  his  robing-room,  he  could  offer  no  explana- 
tion. 

"  A  very  interesting  case  on  service  out  of  jurisdiction 
was  argued  by  Bodkin,"  he  said,  but  he  could  not  remember 
the  names  of  the  parties  to  the  action. 

I  decided  not  to  renew  the  application,  but  to  have  Mr. 
Balfour  served  personally  with  the  writ  when  he  next 
came  to  Ireland.  Then  there  was  a  most  amusing  interlude. 
The  despotic  ruler  of  Ireland  was  frightened  from  the 
country  by  a  midwife.  He  had  boasted  that  he  had  made 
the  Queen's  writ  run  in  Ireland,  now  he  ran  from  it.  The 
situation  naturally  created  excitement  and  amusement, 
and  evoked  much  satirical  comment  and  many  cartoons  in 
the  National  newspapers. 

The  following  account  of  the  service  of  the  writ,  which 
appeared  in  the  Freeman's  Journal,  September  20th,  1887, 
reads  like  an  incident  in  one  of  Lever's  novels.  Whenever 
the  Chief  Secretary  paid  a  flying  visit  to  Ireland  the  process- 
server  in  charge  of  the  writ  strove  hard  to  effect  service,  but 
was  constantly  baffled  by  officials,  who,  evidently  suspecting 
his  mission,  persistently  misinformed  him  about  the  where- 
abouts of  Mr.  Balfour.  This  is  how  the  writ  was  served 
at  last : — 

"  His  first  attempt,"  wrote  the  Freeman's  Journal,  "  was 
on  the  Chief  Secretary's  Lodge,  which  seemed  to  be  deserted 
except  for  a  few  policemen  loitering  round  the  grounds. 
There  he  failed  to  effect  an  entrance,  but  he  was  more 
successful  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge,  where  the  footman 
confessed  that  Mr.  Balfour  was  upstairs  in  bed.  But  after 
a  long  wait  the  poor  process-server  was  informed  that  the 
Chief  Secretary  had  just  left  through  a  side  door  for  parts 
unknown.  Still  determined  to  effect  service  if  possible,  he 


Cartoon  from  "United  Ireland,"  May  7,  1887 

MINISTER  AND  MIDWIFE 

Miss  Maggie  Dillon  (midwife  and  monthly  nurse) :  "  I'll  tache  ye  to  take  away  an 
honest  woman's  character." 


p.  164 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  165 

pursued  him  to  the  Castle,  where  he  learned  that  there  were 
strict  orders  that  nobody  was  to  be  allowed  to  see  Mr. 
Balfour.  He  thereupon  adopted  the  ingenious  stratagem 
of  declaring  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  an  urgent  message 
from  the  Lord  Chancellor  to  the  Chief  Secretary,  which  was 
literally  true,  as  the  preamble  of  a  writ  is  a  printed  "  greeting 
from  the  Lord  Chancellor,"  though,  needless  to  say,  the 
process-server  did  not  explain  the  nature  of  the  message. 
Admitted  at  last  into  the  room  where  the  Chief  Secretary 
was  engaged  with  some  officials,  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognizing  him  from  the  cartoons  in  the  Nationalist  papers. 

"  Nothing  could  exceed  the  Chief  Secretary's  annoyance 
when  he  was  presented  with  the  copy  of  the  writ.  He  first 
turned  pale  and  then  flushed  scarlet,  and  made  a  motion  as 
though  he  would  throw  the  document  on  the  ground  and 
then  trample  on  it.  With  a  great  effort  he  restrained  himself, 
and  directed  that  it  should  be  taken  to  Sir  William  Kaye, 
who  was  then  acting  as  Under  Secretary,  and  who  instructed 
a  solicitor  to  appear  for  Mr.  Balfour." 

The  successful  service  was  celebrated  in  United  Ireland 
by  a  cartoon,  "  You  Dirty  Boy,"  and  some  doggerel  lines  : 

There  was  a  young  man  of  position 

Who  set  out  on  a  mud-slinging  mission. 

Having  slandered  a  midwife  for  fun 

He  instantly  started  to  run, 

But  she  caught  him  before  he  could  mizzle. 

"  With  scrubbing-brush  rough  as  a  thistle," 

Said  bould  Peggy  Dillon, 

"  You  mane  little  villain, 

I'll  scrub  you  as  clane  as  a  whistle." 

The  writ  was  followed  in  due  course  by  a  statement  of 
claim,  of  which  the  following  is  a  specimen  paragraph  : — 

"  By  reason  of  the  said  libel  and  slander  by  the  defendant 
of  the  plaintiff,  the  plaintiff  was  deeply  injured  in  her 
personal  and  professional  character,  and  credit  and  reputa- 
tion as  a  woman  and  a  midwife,  and  a  large  number  of 
persons  who  had  theretofore  patronized  the  said  plaintiff 
in  her  said  business  and  profession  ceased  to  do  so,  and  she 
was  exposed  to  much  odium  amongst  her  neighbours  for 
having  by  her  alleged  inhuman  conduct  afforded  a  serious 


166     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

argument  for  the  passing  of  a  perpetual  Coercion  Act  for 
Ireland." 

Not  merely  through  Great  Britain,  but  round  the  world, 
the  news  ran  of  the  approaching  trial  between  the  Chief 
Secretary  and  the  midwife.  But  the  Chief  Secretary,  much 
to  the  disappointment  of  the  laughter-loving  public, 
managed  to  escape  the  crowning  absurdity  of  a  trial  in  the 
courts. 

An  application  was  made  on  his  behalf  that  the  action 
should  be  dismissed  on  the  ground  that  the  words  com- 
plained of,  having  been  spoken  in  Parliament,  were,  whether 
true  or  false,  absolutely  privileged.  An  enormous  Bar, 
including  the  two  law  officers  of  the  Crown,  were  retained  at 
the  public  expense  to  fight  the  battle  of  the  Chief  Secretary 
against  the  midwife.  For  three  long  days  we  solemnly 
argued  the  case.  At  one  stage  it  looked  as  if  the  midwife 
would  have  the  best  of  it.  A  pretty  clear  intimation  was 
conveyed  to  the  advisers  of  the  Chief  Secretary  that  if  he 
did  not  amend  his  affidavit  judgment  would  go  against 
him.  At  this  he  was  disposed  to  sulk  at  first,  but  thought 
better  of  it.  The  second  affidavit  was  made,  and  the  Chief 
Secretary  had  a  hairbreadth  escape  from  the  infuriated 
midwife.  The  case  is  elaborately  reported  to  the  extent  of 
twenty  full  pages  in  the  official  Irish  Law  Reports,  where  the 
joint  names  of  the  Chief  Secretary  go  down  to  posterity 
together  as  a  leading  authority  on  the  law  of  Parliamentary 
privilege. 

It  is,  however,  only  fair  to  remember  that  during  his 
stormy  career  in  Ireland,  Mr.  Balfour  conferred  one  great 
boon  on  the  country  which  almost  entitles  him  to  rank  with 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  as  a  public  benefactor.  If  Sir  Walter 
introduced  the  potato,  Mr.  Balfour  introduced  golf  to 
an  appreciative  people,  and  both  grew  and  flourished 
with  an  amazing  rapidity  and  vigour  in  the  congenial 
Irish  soil. 

Before  Mr.  Balfour's  coming  the  very  name  of  golf  was 
unknown.  I  recall  with  shame  that  the  game  was  ridiculed  in 
the  columns  of  United  Ireland,  and  the  name  "  Mr.  Golfour" 
regarded  as  a  term  of  reproach.  The  few  votaries  who  first 


THE  HUMOURS  OF  COERCION  167 

followed  his  lead  and  formed  the  Royal  Golf  Club  of  Dolly- 
mount,  with  their  caddies  and  their  bags  of  queer-looking 
clubs,  were  subjected  to  merciless  ridicule.  Nationalists 
stood  out  for  a  long  time  against  the  game,  but,  one  by  one, 
myself  among  the  number,  they  yielded  to  its  inexplicable, 
irresistible  fascination.  To-day  there  is  no  town  in  Ireland 
that  hasn't  its  golf  club.  Dublin  is  one  of  the  most  en- 
thusiastic golf  centres  in  the  world.  I  could  count  over 
thirty  golf  clubs  in  full  swing  within  a  radius  of  a  dozen 
miles  of  the  Irish  metropolis. 

For  all  golf  is  a  great  game  ;  for  elderly  people  like  myself 
it  is  the  only  game.  It  not  merely  affords  enjoyment,  but  it 
enforces  exercise  and  fresh  air  which  the  doctor  can  only 
prescribe.  When  Irishmen  are  tempted  to  recall  with 
bitterness  Mr.  Balfour's  regime,  they  should  never  forget 
they  are  indebted  to  him  for  the  priceless  benefaction  of 
golf. 

Amongst  its  by-products  it  is  brightening  the  day  of  rest 
and  effecting  its  redemption  from  the  thraldom  of  black 
black.  At  first  all  golf  clubs  were  closed  on  Sunday,  now 
they  are  all  open.  It  was  in  the  intermediate  period  that 
Mr.  James  Campbell,  K.C.,  taxed  by  some  Sabbatarian 
electors  of  Trinity  College  with  playing  golf  on  Sunday,  set 
up  his  standard  of  geographical  morality,  and  declared  he 
never  played  near  Dublin,  and  in  the  country  only  when 
he  required  rest  from  arduous  labour. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  PARNELL  SPLIT 

Parnell's  first  speech,  stumbling  and  incoherent  —  Growth  of  eloquence 
and  power  —  An  unrivalled  leader  —  The  O'Shea  scandal  —  Meeting  in 
Leinster  Hall  —  The  storming  of  United  Ireland  —  Insuppressible, 
a  one-man  daily  paper  —  Founding  the  National  Press  —  Capturing 
the  Freeman's  Journal. 


in  Ireland  slowly  collapsed.  Everywhere 
it  is  ridicule  that  kills  ;  but  this  is  essentially  true  in 
Ireland,  where  the  sense  of  humour  is  so  strong.  Not  merely 
in  Ireland,  however,  but  in  England,  too,  as  the  by- 
elections  showed,  the  tide  was  flowing  strongly  in  favour 
of  Home  Rule  for  Ireland.  No  one  doubted  that  at  the 
next  election  Mr.  Gladstone  would  return  to  power  with  a 
majority  that  would  completely  overawe  the  House  of 
Lords.  Home  Rule  seemed  perfectly  safe,  when,  as  so  often 
happened  in  the  history  of  the  Irish  movement,  a  crushing 
blow  fell  from  a  wholly  unexpected  quarter. 

Charles  Stewart  Parnell  was  at  the  time  in  a  position  of 
unexampled  power  in  Ireland.  O'Connell  himself  never 
held  such  unquestioned  sway.  He  had  created  an  Irish 
party,  rigidly  disciplined  and  full  of  fighting  force,  and  held 
it  together  in  the  stress  of  a  tremendous  conflict.  His  popu- 
larity was  enhanced  a  hundredfold  by  the  failure  of  the 
cowardly  attack  of  The  Times. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  into  a  detailed  account  of 
the  rise  and  fall  of  Parnell  as  an  Irish  leader.  Certainly  no 
one  from  the  opening  of  his  career  could  have  anticipated 
its  zenith  or  its  close.  Of  qualities  supposed  to  be  typically 
Irish  he  had  none.  A  Protestant  landlord,  cold,  shy  and 
reserved,  and  at  first  almost  inarticulate,  he  seemed  to 
labour  under  a  disabling  handicap  for  an  Irish  political 
career. 

168 


Photo  by  Maitll  and  Fox,  London, 

CHARLES  STEWART  PARNEI.L 


p.  168 


THE  PARNELL  SPLIT  169 

In  the  General  Election  of  1874  he  decided  to  stand  in 
the  National  interest  for  his  native  county  of  Wicklow,  but 
being  at  the  time  High  Sheriff  of  the  county  he  was  officially 
incapacitated  from  becoming  a  candidate,  and  the  Govern- 
ment refusing  to  permit  his  resignation — an  almost  unheard- 
of  act  of  discourtesy  in  modern  political  warfare — he  had 
to  abandon  his  purpose.  A  month  later  the  appointment 
of  Colonel  Taylor  as  Chancellor  of  the  Duchy  of  Lancaster 
in  the  newly  formed  Conservative  administration  created  a 
vacancy  in  the  County  of  Dublin.  Although  it  was  a  forlorn 
hope  to  fight  a  seat  in  the  then  condition  of  the  register,  the 
National  party  felt  bound  to  contest  it,  if  a  suitable  candi- 
date could  be  found. 

Mr.  Parnell  offered  himself,  and  to  a  hopeless  fight  was 
added  a  hopeless  candidate.  Almost  my  first  task  as  a 
reporter  on  the  Freeman's  Journal  was  to  report  this  young 
landlord  Nationalist,  whom  nobody  at  the  time  took 
seriously.  In  a  large  experience  I  never  before  or  since 
heard  a  poorer  speech. 

After  the  usual  preliminary  canters  by  the  chairman  and 
routine  speakers,  the  candidate  rose  to  address  the  meeting. 
"  Mr.  Chairman  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  offer 
myself  as  a  candidate  for  your  county.  I  desire  to  represent 
your  county  in  Parliament.  I  feel  it  would  be  an  honour  to 
represent  your  county  in  Parliament,  and  therefore  I  have 
come  forward  to  offer  myself  as  candidate  for  your 
county." 

Throughout  his  voice  was  faltering  and  his  words  con- 
fused, and  after  this  brief  and  striking  exordium  he  hesitated, 
stood  silent  on  the  platform  for  one  long  minute  and  sat 
down.  This  was  the  man  who  afterwards  proved  himself 
so  cogent  a  debater  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  such  a 
master  of  the  feelings  and  passions  of  his  audience  on  a 
platform. 

Only  a  few  years  afterwards  I  heard  him  deliver  in  the 
market  square  in  Galway  one  of  the  most  powerful  platform 
speeches  that  I  have  ever  heard.  It  was  there  he  fastened 
on  Mr.  Forster  the  nickname  of  "  Buckshot,"  which  stuck 
to  him  to  the  hour  of  his  death.  There  were  people  who 


170     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

thought  Parnell  cold.  I  could  never  think  so.  He  lacked, 
indeed,  the  blaze  and  smoke  of  the  flamboyant  orator,  but 
there  was  a  calm,  intense  white-heat  of  earnestness  in  his 
words  that,  in  my  mind,  was  far  more  effective.  The  con- 
trast between  his  break-down  in  North  Dublin  and  his  later 
triumphs  was  as  complete  as  the  contrast  between  Disraeli's 
collapse  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  his  subsequent 
mastery  of  that  assembly. 

My  early  impression  of  Parnell  is  confirmed  by  Judge 
Adams  in  an  account  given  by  him  of  his  first  meeting  with 
the  Irish  leader. 

"  One  day  in  the  'seventies,"  he  wrote,  "  I  happened  to 
drop  into  the  reporters'  room  of  the  Freeman  office.  I  found 
there  one  of  the  staff  who  had  been  detailed  to  report  a 
meeting  in  the  country.  He  had  missed  his  train  and  inter- 
cepted the  principal  orator,  who  was  dictating  his  speech  to 
him.  This  gentleman  at  once  attracted  my  attention.  He 
was  young,  good-looking,  of  aristocratic  appearance,  and 
talked  with  the  accent  of  an  English  University  man.  He 
was,  in  short,  a  '  swell.'  But  the  speech  had  nothing  of  the 
'  swell '  about  it.  In  a  strange,  halting  way  he  was  dictating 
a  violent,  aggressive  and  fighting  speech  on  the  Nationalist 
side. 

"  I  left  the  office  without  discovering  who  the  orator  was, 
and  dismissed  the  incident  with  the  thought  that  here  was 
another  of  those  young  men  of  family  who  have  occasion- 
ally fluttered  round  the  national  flag,  but  who  soon  retreated 
to  seek  some  more  congenial  sphere.  I  little  thought  that 
I  had  seen  for  the  first  time  that  day  a  man  who  was  to 
rank  in  the  history  of  the  nineteenth  century  with  Bismarck 
and  Gladstone,  Lincoln  and  Cavour,  a  man  so  important 
that  an  event  in  his  domestic  life  was  to  divide  a  united 
nation,  to  profoundly  affect  the  fate  of  parties  and  the 
course  of  politics,  and  to  be  discussed  with  interest  in  every 
corner  of  Christendom." 

When  I  next  met  Mr.  Parnell  he  was  the  leader  of  the 
Irish  people,  and  had  already  begun  to  assert  his  supreme 
authority  in  the  party  and  the  country.  It  was  on  the 
occasion  of  the  selection  of  a  National  candidate  for  the 


THE  PARNELL  SPLIT  171 

County  of  Galway.  There  was  a  strong  objection,  especially 
among  the  priests,  to  the  candidature  of  that  sterling 
Nationalist,  Matt  Harris,  whom  Mr.  Parnell  was  determined 
should  be  selected.  The  priests,  as  was  their  custom,  held 
a  meeting  before  the  convention,  and  they  honoured  me  by 
unanimously  nominating  me  for  the  Tuam  Division,  for 
which  Matt  Harris  was  a  candidate.  I  declined  the  honour. 
Afterwards  the  convention  was  held,  Mr.  Parnell  pre- 
siding. In  my  whole  life  I  never  saw  anything  finer  than 
the  force  and  dexterity  with  which  he  bent  the  stormy 
assembly  to  his  will,  and  secured  at  last,  alike  from 
priests  and  people,  the  unanimous  nomination  of  his 
candidate. 

Some  days  later  a  message  was  conveyed  to  me  by 
William  O'Brien  from  Parnell  that  a  seat  elsewhere  was  at 
my  disposal,  if  I  desired  to  enter  Parliament.  It  was  a 
tempting  offer,  but  I  saw  no  way  of  supporting  myself  in 
London,  so  my  poverty,  and  not  my  will,  refused. 

My  last  meeting  with  Parnell  was  under  very  different 
circumstances.  For  some  years  political  gossip  had  been 
busy  with  the  mysterious  periodical  disappearance  of  the 
Irish  leader,  often  when  his  presence  was  most  needed.  The 
rumours  took  more  definite  form  when  he  planted  Captain 
O'Shea  on  the  electors  of  Galway  in  defiance  of  the  protest 
of  Messrs.  Biggar  and  Healy. 

Still,  despite  those  vague  and  fitful  warnings,  the  pro- 
ceedings in  the  O'Shea  and  Parnell  divorce  case  came  like 
a  thunderbolt  on  the  people  of  Ireland. 

Their  first  impulse  was,  naturally,  to  rally  to  their  leader, 
especially  as  he  was  bitterly  assailed  by  the  Coercionists. 
Nationalist  Ireland  felt  like  Moore's  reckless  heroine,  who 
sang:— 

I  know  not,  I  care  not,  if  guilt's  in  thy  heart, 
I  know  that  I  love  thee  whatever  thou  art. 

At  that  time  I  was  in  sole  charge  of  United  Ireland. 
William  O'Brien  and  John  Dillon,  with  others  of  the  party 
evading  a  Coercion  conviction,  slipped  away  to  France  in  a 
fishing-boat,  and  thence  to  America,  and  were  engaged  in 
a  triumphant  mission  on  behalf  of  the  Irish  movement. 


172     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

I  felt  my  responsibility  deeply,  for  United  Ireland  led 
National  opinion  in  Ireland,  and  I  was  sorely  puzzled  in 
what  direction  it  should  lead. 

From  the  first  I  realized  that  my  duty  was  to  the  nation, 
rather  than  to  the  leader  whose  conduct  had  imperilled  the 
movement  entrusted  to  his  charge.  But  at  the  outset  it 
seemed  that  Ireland  could  be  best  served  by  the  defence  of 
Parnell  and  the  maintenance  of  his  leadership.  A  great 
meeting  had  been  arranged  in  the  Leinster  Hall,  Dublin, 
in  support  of  the  evicted  tenants,  whom  Mr.  T.  D.  Sullivan 
finely  described  as  the  "  wounded  soldiers  of  the  land 
war." 

This  meeting  was  at  the  last  moment  turned  into  a 
demonstration  in  favour  of  Mr.  Parnell's  leadership.  The 
speech  of  the  night  was  delivered  by  Mr.  T.  M.  Healy  amid 
uproarious  applause.  I  never  heard,  even  from  him,  a  speech 
more  pungent  or  more  powerful.  "  Mr.  Parnell,"  he  de- 
clared, amid  tremendous  cheering,  "  was  not  so  much  a 
man  as  an  institution,  an  institution  that  must  be  preserved 
at  any  cost."  There  was  sound  wisdom,  he  declared,  in  the 
nautical  injunction,  "  Don't  speak  to  the  man  at  the  wheel." 
The  resolution  in  favour  of  Mr.  Parnell's  leadership  was 
unanimously  carried,  and  a  few  days  later  he  was  unani- 
mously elected  by  the  party,  only  one  man,  Mr.  J.  Jordan, 
even  hinting  that  an  explanation  of  the  divorce-court  pro- 
ceedings might  be  desirable. 

Naturally,  I  took  the  same  line  in  United  Ireland.  Alluding 
to  the  outcry  that  was  raised  by  the  Coercionists,  Lord 
Salisbury  at  their  head,  I  wrote  that  "  Ireland  refused  to 
throw  him  to  the  English  wolves  who  were  howling  for  his 
destruction."  The  phrase  was  afterwards  embodied  by 
Mr.  Parnell  in  his  manifesto. 

But  the  day  after  his  election  by  the  party  came  the 
news  that  Mr.  Gladstone  had  declared  that  his  position, 
with  which  Home  Rule  was  bound  up,  would  be  a  nullity 
if  Mr.  Parnell  retained  the  leadership  of  the  Irish  party. 
By  some  fatality  this  view,  conveyed  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Morley,  was  not  communicated  to  the  Irish  party  before  his 
re-election,  in  the  mistaken  hope  that  Mr.  Parnell  would 


THE  PARNELL  SPLIT  173 

voluntarily  retire.  On  hearing  of  it,  the  Irish  party  in- 
stantly reconsidered  their  hasty  decision,  and  after  a  stormy 
discussion,  protracted  over  several  days,  they,  by  an  over- 
whelming majority,  deposed  him  from  the  chair  and  elected 
the  vice-chairman,  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  in  his  room,  with 
a  committee  of  six  to  assist  him.  Their  view  was  endorsed 
by  the  American  delegates,  including  John  Dillon  and 
William  O'Brien. 

I  do  not  propose  to  reopen  that  fiery  controversy,  of  which 
the  ashes  are  still  smouldering.  Looking  back  on  it,  each 
side  may  find  much  justification  for  their  opponents  to 
which  they  were  blind  while  the  conflict  still  raged.  I  shall 
touch  only  on  the  incidents  in  the  controversy  in  which  I 
was  personally  involved,  and  which  may  not  be  without 
interest  when  the  history  of  that  stormy  period  comes  to 
be  written  in  detail. 

In  United  Ireland  I  followed  the  majority  of  the  party 
and  obeyed  the  specific  instructions  cabled  by  William 
O'Brien.  Personally  I  was  perfectly  convinced  of  the 
wisdom  of  their  action.  A  declaration  from  the  Catholic 
hierarchy  made  it  plain  that  Parnell's  leadership  must 
alienate  their  support.  In  the  first  editorial  in  United 
Ireland  I  wrote  under  the  heading  "  Ireland  or  Parnell  ?  "  : 
"  There  is  but  one  sentiment  that  can  master  the  fidelity 
of  the  Irish  party  to  their  great  leader — fidelity  to  their 
great  cause.  He  has  strong  claims  on  them  ;  Ireland  has 
stronger.  If  Home  Rule  is  to  be  helped  by  his  leadership, 
he  must  stay ;  if  Home  Rule  is  to  be  hurt,  he  must  go." 
I  went  on  to  show,  in  the  words  cabled  to  me  by  William 
O'Brien,  that  Parnell's  leadership  "  meant  destruction  for 
the  Irish  movement." 

Again  the  following  week  I  wrote  a  succession  of  editorials, 
opposing  on  various  grounds  Mr.  Parnell's  continued  leader- 
ship. 

But  meanwhile  Mr.  Parnell  had  rapidly  realized  the  im- 
portance of  United  Ireland  in  the  battle  that  was  to  be 
fought,  and  determined  at  all  hazards  to  capture  it.  In 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  having  concluded  my  pro- 
tracted work  in  the  office  and  left  the  paper  ready  to  go  to 


174     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

press,  I  returned  to  my  house  in  Great  Denmark  Street  for 
a  few  hours'  sleep. 

I  was  roused  by  a  message,  by  whom  delivered  I  have 
never  ascertained,  that  Mr.  Parnell  was  at  the  office.  Re- 
turning with  all  speed,  I  found  Mr.  Parnell  and  a  number  of 
his  followers,  including  Mr.  Pierce  O'Mahony  and  Mr.  Leamy, 
in  possession  of  the  editor's  room. 

Mr.  Parnell  looked  pale  and  weary,  but  resolute  as  ever. 
In  a  cold,  passionless  tone  he  told  me  he  was  much  dis- 
satisfied (and  no  wonder  !)  with  the  last  issue  of  United 
Ireland,  and  as  one  of  the  principal  proprietors  and 
directors  he  felt  it  necessary  to  dismiss  the  editor  for 
having  neglected  to  submit  the  leading  articles  to  his 
revision. 

I  replied  that  I  had  not  hoped  that  the  last  issue  of  the 
paper  would  please  him,  and  that  I  could  not  recognize  his 
authority  nor  accept  his  dismissal.  I  was  there,  I  said,  as 
the  deputy  of  William  O'Brien,  whose  instructions  I  had 
obeyed.  Since  its  foundation  William  O'Brien  had  acted 
as  founder,  conductor,  and  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
paper,  and  had  repeatedly  been  made  responsible  for 
it  under  the  Coercion  Act.  I  had  never  heard  of  Mr.  Parnell 
in  connection  with  the  paper,  and  I  would  acknowledge  no 
authority  but  Mr.  O'Brien's. 

Mr.  Parnell  declared  he  had  the  legal  right,  and  I  replied 
that  that  remained  to  be  proved. 

Thereupon  Mr.  Parnell,  who  had  grown  more  excited  as 
the  discussion  proceeded,  shouted  : 

"  I  now  dismiss  you,  and  order  you  to  leave  !  " 

I  again  replied :  "I  decline  to  leave,  unless  compelled  by 
legal  process  or  overwhelming  force." 

At  that  he  called  out  to  one  of  his  friends  :  "  Send  for 
Mr.  Glancy  ! " 

Mr.  John  Glancy,  who  was  then  sub-Sheriff  of  Dublin 
and  a  violent  partisan  of  Parnell's,  arrived  on  the  scene 
leading  an  excited  mob,  who  surrounded  me  with  threaten- 
ing shouts  and  gestures.  "  Throw  him  out !  "  they  cried. 
"  Pitch  him  downstairs  !  "  and  for  a  moment  I  thought  I 
would  make  my  exit  through  the  window  instead  of  the 


THE  PARNELL  SPLIT  175 

door,  and  did  not  at  all  relish  the  look  of  the  spiked  area 
railings  below.    Turning  to  Mr.  Parnell,  I  said  : 

"  This  answers  the  description  of  '  overwhelming  force/  ' 
and  I  walked  to  the  door. 

To  my  surprise  and  delight  the  crowd  made  way  for  me, 
and  I  was  allowed  to  pass  out  unmolested.  After  I  had  left, 
one  of  the  clerks  in  the  office,  a  powerful  fighting  man 
named  O'Dwyer,  wrenched  the  leg  from  the  stool  on  which 
he  was  sitting,  and  shouting,  "  Here's  Tipperary  !  "  held 
back  the  mob  until  I  was  safe  in  the  street. 

Later  on  my  friend  Father  Healy  summarized  the  incident 
by  the  apt  scriptural  quotation  : 

"  And  the  lot  fell  on  Matthias." 

Mr.  Parnell  and  his  friends  promptly  seized  the  issue  of 
United  Ireland  that  was  ready  for  distribution  in  the  office 
and  destroyed  it. 

But  some  copies  escaped  their  hands,  and,  assisted  by 
Mr.  T.  M.  Healy  and  Mr.  William  Murphy,  I  succeeded  in 
producing  a  facsimile  issue  next  day  under  the  title 
Suppressed  United  Ireland. 

Then  followed  the  strangest  newspaper  enterprise  in 
which  any  man  was  ever  involved.  It  was  determined  to 
reprint  in  the  Irish  Catholic  office  a  daily  edition  of 
Suppressed  United  Ireland.  The  printing  machine  was  one 
of  those  old-fashioned  affairs  with  tapes  and  pulleys  that 
flaps  the  paper  down  on  the  type,  turns  it  like  a  pancake 
and  flaps  it  down  again,  printing  first  one  side  and  then  the 
other.  I  was  the  entire  literary,  editorial,  and  managerial 
staff  of  this  new  daily. 

At  an  early  stage  an  injunction  was  obtained  from  the 
Vice-Chancellor  against  our  printing  the  paper  as  United 
Ireland.  My  vote  for  disobeying  the  injunction  and 
going  to  prison  as  the  easiest  and  most  effective  answer 
was  overruled,  and  the  issue  was  continued  as  "  Insup- 
pressible,"  a  title  borrowed  from  a  cable  of  William 
O'Brien's. 

It  was  the  toughest  job  I  ever  tackled.  No  money  would 
pay  for  the  work  I  did,  and  I  was  paid  none.  For  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  the  entire 


176     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

staff  of  a  daily  paper  ;  but  towards  the  end  I  had  in  the 
reporting  department  the  able  and  zealous  assistance  of 
Mr.  H.  O'Connor,  a  host  in  himself. 

During  the  three  weeks  the  paper  lasted  I  worked  steadily 
sixteen  hours  a  day — real  hard  work  at  high  pressure. 
Newspaper  writers  will  understand  when  I  mention  that 
with  my  own  hand  I  wrote  daily  in  leaders  and  paragraphs 
a  full  newspaper  page  of  editorial  comment.  In  addition 
I  superintended  the  distribution  of  the  paper,  which  was 
"  published  "  at  my  private  residence,  where  all  correspond- 
ence was  addressed.  Insuppressible  was  probably  the  only 
newspaper  ever  published  for  which  the  demand  exceeded 
the  supply.  The  clumsy  printing  press,  working  all  day  and 
night,  could  not  turn  out  the  papers  half  fast  enough  for 
clamouring  readers  in  town  and  country.  I  have  still  piles 
of  telegrams  from  newsagents:  "Send  me  five  hundred 
copies."  "  Send  me  a  thousand  copies."  "  Send  me  the 
latest  date  you  can."  "  Send  me  any  date."  There  were 
no  "returns." 

When,  later  on,  I  was  anxious  to  preserve  a  bound  file  of 
this  remarkable  paper  I  had  the  utmost  difficulty  in  pro- 
curing the  requisite  copies. 

The  strain  told  on  my  health,  though  the  excitement  kept 
me  going.  I  could  not  sleep  without  narcotics,  which,  to 
guard  against  a  special  craving,  were  varied  each  night. 
During  the  three  weeks  I  lost  a  stone  and  a  half  of  my  weight, 
and  I  had  one  very  singular  experience.  Coming  from  the 
office  for  a  brief  spell  to  attend  a  special  meeting  of  the 
committee  of  a  new  organization,  "  The  National  Federa- 
tion," started  by  Insuppressible,  I  was  discussing  some 
question  of  policy  with  Mr.  William  Murphy  and  Mr. 
Healy  when  suddenly,  as  if  something  snapped  in  my  brain, 
I  dropped  down  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  floor.  I  awoke  as 
suddenly  as  I  fell,  picked  myself  up  and  resumed  the  con- 
versation where  it  had  broken  off,  unconscious  of  the  break. 
Three  times  this  happened  before  they  packed  me  home  with 
a  friend  in  a  cab.  A  few  hours'  sleep  pulled  me  together  ; 
there  was  no  leisure  to  get  knocked  out,  for  Insuppressible 
must  come  out  as  usual  next  morning. 


THE   PARNELL  SPLIT  177 

A  telegram  from  Boulogne  from  William  O'Brien  luckily 
put  an  end  to  Insuppressible  before  Insuppressible  put  an 
end  to  its  editor.  Honestly,  I  am  convinced  it  was  a  choice 
of  the  paper's  death  or  mine,  and  I  am  glad  the  paper  was 
the  victim.  From  all  parts  of  the  country  came  urgent 
entreaties  to  continue,  and  generous  promises  of  financial 
aid,  but  I  was  having  none. 

The  National  Press,  a  well-organized,  perfectly  equipped 
paper  with  capital  at  its  back,  after  a  brief  interval,  followed 
Insuppressible  as  the  organ  of  the  Nationalist  majority 
opposed  to  Mr.  Parnell,  and  I  was  invited  to  become 
chief  leader  writer  on  the  new  paper.  The  prospect  did  not 
attract  me.  I  had  had  a  full  dose  of  newspaper  drudgery, 
and  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  easier  and  pleasanter 
work  of  the  Bar.  But  my  colleagues  were  urgent,  the  fight 
still  raged,  and  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  drop  out  without 
the  appearance  of  desertion.  So  once  again  Fate  flung  me 
back  into  a  newspaper  office. 

I  shall  not  readily  forget  the  first  issue  of  the  National 
Press.  It  is  an  exciting  business,  the  bringing  out  of  a  new 
newspaper.  The  whole  staff,  of  which  Mr.  Healy  was  a 
member,  watched  in  the  grey  dawn  the  printing  of  the  first 
issue.  As  the  huge  cylinder  of  paper  began  to  revolve  and 
the  broad,  white  ribbon  was  whirled  into  the  machinery  to 
drop  out  on  the  far  side,  "  Tip,  tip,  tip,"  quicker  than  a 
man  could  count,  neatly  printed  and  folded  newspapers, 
Mr.  Healy  exclaimed  : 

"  This  is  the  winding-sheet  of  Parnellism  !  " 

My  work  of  leader  writer  on  the  National  Press  was  not 
exactly  easy,  but  it  was  mere  idleness  compared  with  my 
experience  on  the  Insuppressible. 

About  this  time  I  had  an  interesting  and  encouraging 
proof  that  my  work  had  not  been  wasted.  The  Nationalists 
of  Liverpool  were  good  enough  to  entertain  me  at  a  public 
banquet  with  the  flattering  assurance  that  Insuppressible 
had  held  the  movement  together  in  that  town  during  the 
first  strain  of  the  Parnell  controversy. 

The  National  Press  was  eventually  amalgamated  with  the 
Freeman's  Journal,  which  had  come  round  to  the  same 


178     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

view,  and  the  National  Press  staff  went  over  bodily  to 
take  direction  and  possession  of  the  amalgamated  news- 
paper. 

Mr.  Healy  triumphantly  declared  we  "  had  captured  the 
Freeman  in  the  open  sea  and  put  a  prize  crew  aboard." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
PARLIAMENT 

A  lively  Irish  election — Hard  fight  in  North  Roscommon — Speeches  under 
fire — Blockade  and  rescue — A  fight  for  a  platform — "  The  Boy  " — Per- 
sonation a  fine  art — A  pleasant  surprise — Miscounting  the  votes — 
A  narrow  win — M.P. 

A  LITTLE  later  I  will  have  something  to  say  of  my 
experience  as  the  chief  writer  on  the  Freeman's 
Journal,  but  first  let  me  tell  as  briefly  as  I  can  how  I  came 
to  enter  Parliament,  and  what  I  saw  and  heard  during  my 
sojourn  for  a  single  memorable  session  in  the  British  House 
of  Commons. 

The  tragic  death  of  Mr.  Parnell  did  not  quench  the 
Parnell  controversy  ;  it  was  still  raging  fiercely  at  the  next 
dissolution  of  Parliament,  and  the  Parnellites  prepared  to 
contest  the  seats  in  which  they  conceived  there  was  even  an 
off-chance  of  success.  Amongst  the  few  seats  they  made 
certain  of  winning,  the  most  certain,  in  their  view,  was  the 
constituency  of  North  Roscommon.  Nowhere  was  loyalty 
to  Parnell  more  fervent,  nowhere  was  the  indignation 
against  his  "  betrayers  "  more  fierce.  It  was  naturally  hard 
to  find  a  candidate  to  lead  this  forlorn  hope  against  the 
Parnellite  in  that  division. 

Mr.  Healy  urged  me  to  take  the  field.  I  protested  that 
my  home  was  in  Dublin,  I  had  a  wife  and  family  to  support 
and  no  money  to  spare ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  I  had 
an  insuperable  objection  under  any  circumstances  to  accept 
salary  from  the  Parliamentary  fund. 

"  Don't  bother  about  that,"  he  retorted ;  "  there  is  not 
the  ghost  of  a  chance  of  your  winning  the  seat.  All  that  is 
wanted  is  to  put  up  a  good  fight." 

So  I  went  into  the  contest  as  a  forlorn  hope,  not  expecting 
to  win,  and  at  the  outset  not  wishing  to  win.  But  before 

179 


i8o     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

I  was  half-way  through  the  spirit  of  the  fight  seized  me,  and 
I  would  have  given  my  right  arm  for  victory. 

I  have  told  the  story  of  that  exciting  contest,  with  a  little 
artistic  exaggeration,  in  one  of  my  novels,  "  White  Magic," 
but  perhaps  some  of  the  most  curious  incidents  are  worth 
repeating  with  the  exaggeration  stripped  off. 

My  popular  opponent,  the  veteran  James  O' Kelly,  fought 
a  desperate  fight.  By  an  extraordinary  alliance  all  the 
Unionists  and  all  the  extreme  Nationalists  were  on  his  side. 
Our  meetings  were  attacked  by  violent  crowds,  and  many 
of  my  speeches  were  delivered  under  a  fusillade  of  stones. 
Throughout  the  contest  I  always  carried  a  blackthorn,  and 
all  my  followers  were  similarly  equipped.  Sometimes  in 
the  morning  before  sallying  forth  I  would  tap  my  head 
lightly  with  the  knob  of  the  shillelagh,  and  try  to  fancy  what 
the  blow  would  feel  like  with  the  whole  strength  of  a  strong 
man's  arm  behind  it. 

Very  early  in  the  fight  I  noticed  one  figure  that  was  never 
absent  from  any  of  my  meetings — a  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
clean-limbed  young  fellow  with  the  strength  and  activity 
of  a  tiger,  who  was  known  to  local  fame  as  "  The  Boy." 
When  I  made  a  point  that  pleased  him,  he  would  leap  three 
feet  into  the  air  and  wave  his  blackthorn  over  his  head  with 
a  shout  of  approval  that  did  a  speaker's  heart  good  to  hear. 

Boyle,  the  chief  town  of  the  division,  was  my  head- 
quarters, though  in  Boyle,  as  in  the  other  towns  of  the 
division,  the  majority  was  Parnellite.  The  nomination  day 
at  Boyle  was  chosen  for  a  trial  of  strength  between  the 
parties.  Both  sides  posted  up  green  placards  inviting  our 
friends  to  "  assemble  in  their  thousands,"  and  both  sides 
concluded  with  the  national  prayer,  "  God  save  Ireland." 

But  the  Parnellites  contrived  at  the  last  moment  to  steal 
a  march  on  us.  What  country  contingents  they  could 
collect  they  brought  in  quietly  the  night  before  the  nomina- 
tion, armed  them  from  an  arsenal  of  blackthorns  in  the 
suburbs,  completely  captured  the  town,  and  took  forcible 
possession  of  the  platform  we  had  erected  for  our  meet- 
ing. From  early  morning  they  paraded  the  streets,  inviting 
us  to  come  out  and  be  beaten.  About  noon  I  made  a  dash 


PARLIAMENT  181 

for  the  court-house  to  lodge  my  nomination  paper,  and  by 
a  miracle  got  back  without  a  scratch.  The  day  went  by 
slowly.  Both  parties  had  fixed  two  o'clock  as  the  hour  of 
the  meeting,  but  there  seemed  little  prospect  of  our  side 
fulfilling  our  engagement. 

Our  opponents  whiled  away  the  time  by  parading  in 
front  of  the  hotel  in  which  I  was  imprisoned,  cheering  for 
Parnell  and  groaning  for  "  the  traitors."  That  was  hard 
enough  to  bear,  but  it  was  worse  still  when  they  were  all 
drawn  away  to  the  platform  in  the  market-place — our  plat- 
form— to  make  ready  for  their  meeting,  leaving  the  streets 
wholly  deserted. 

Sitting  at  the  window  of  the  hotel,  I  was  suddenly  aware 
of  a  faint  sound  in  the  far  distance.  A  mere  palpitation  of 
the  air  it  seemed  at  first,  something  to  be  rather  felt  than 
heard.  Gradually  the  sound  grew  in  volume,  like  the  dull 
boom  of  the  distant  sea  or  the  even  tramp  of  marching  feet. 
Nearer  it  came,  and  I  heard  the  deep  roll  of  many  drums 
slightly  flavoured  with  the  shrill  shrieking  of  the  fifes. 
Listening  with  all  my  ear,  I  caught  the  tune  at  last,  the  fine 
old  Irish  air  "  The  wearin'  of  the  green." 

Half  a  dozen  friends,  who  were  sitting  round  as  disconso- 
late as  myself,  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  shouted,  "  The  boys 
are  coming  !  " 

The  head  of  the  procession  came  sweeping  round  the 
corner  of  the  street  like  a  huge  serpent  whose  hinder  bulk 
still  wound  far  out  along  the  country  road. 

They  cheered  vigorously  as  they  passed  the  hotel  and,  in 
the  pause  that  followed  the  cheer,  again  the  faint  tramp 
and  distant  drums  were  heard  from  a  different  quarter,  and 
another  and  a  larger  crowd  came  pouring  in. 

When  the  approaching  crowds  caught  sight  of  each  other 
their  cheers  broke  out  like  thunder  from  the  threatening 
clouds.  I  heard  my  own  name  called  by  a  thousand  voices, 
and  gladly  sallied  out  from  my  hotel. 

Forthwith  we  marched  forth  in  united  strength  to  re- 
capture our  own  platform  and  overthrow  the  Parnellites, 
but  were  met  by  a  double  row  of  policemen  drawn  across  the 
slope  to  keep  the  hostile  crowds  apart. 


182     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

Standing  on  a  chair  in  front  of  the  police,  the  magistrate 
in  charge,  pale  with  excitement,  began  reading  the  Riot  Act, 
but  his  voice  was  drowned  by  a  savage  cheer.  A  shower  of 
stones  came  over  the  heads  of  the  police  from  the  Parnellites 
on  the  hill,  and  in  a  moment  I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of 
a  charging  crowd  that  broke  headlong  on  the  opposing  line. 

Luckily  for  us  the  police  were  only  half  in  earnest.  A 
volley  of  Mr.  Forster's  "  merciful  "  buckshot  at  the  moment 
would  have  cost  a  score  of  lives  ;  not  a  shot  was  fired.  Half 
a  dozen  drew  their  dirks,  but  for  the  rest  baton  met  black- 
thorn. The  din  was  tremendous  as  wood  rattled  against 
wood.  I  saw  "  The  Boy  "  push  on  right  in  front  of  me  into 
the  thick  of  the  melee,  strong  and  active  as  a  young  panther. 
His  shillelagh  flew  like  a  flail,  and  at  every  stroke  a  police- 
man went  down.  Through  the  centre  of  the  line  he  broke 
his  way,  and  was  almost  clear  of  the  police  when  he  was 
stabbed  by  a  dirk  in  the  thigh,  and  at  the  same  moment 
whacked  on  the  head  with  a  baton.  He  tumbled  under  the 
feet  of  the  charging  crowd,  whose  weight  and  impetus  broke 
through  the  police  as  a  ship's  prow  breaks  through  the 
waves,  scattering  them  on  either  side.  The  Parnellites 
stood  their  ground  gallantly,  but  our  crowd,  outnumbering 
them  three  to  one,  flooded  the  market-place,  sweeping  all 
before  them. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  standing  on  the  platform 
on  the  top  of  the  slope,  with  a  great  sea  of  faces  stretched 
out  below.  I  was  out  of  breath,  and  clutched  my  black- 
thorn so  hard  that  the  knobs  hurt  my  hand.  While  I  spoke 
there  were  "  excursions  and  alarms  "  between  the  opposing 
forces.  The  police,  with  splendid  impartiality,  kept  the 
Parnellites  back  as  they  had  tried  to  keep  us  back  at  first. 
But  now  and  then  a  stone  from  over  their  heads  came 
clattering  on  the  platform,  followed  by  angry  rushes  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd. 

As  I  came  down  from  the  platform,  when  the  speaking  was 
over,  someone  told  me  "The  Boy"  was  "wishful  to  have 
a  word  "  with  me. 

I  found  him  lying  on  a  sofa,  his  long  legs  protruding  over 
a  chair  at  the  end.  There  was  a  great  reddish  blotch  on 


PARLIAMENT  183 

his  trousers  at  the  thigh  where  the  dirk  had  struck,  and  the 
linen  with  which  his  head  was  bandaged  showed  stains  of 
the  same  rusty-brown.  His  face  was  as  white  as  the  linen 
cloths,  and  his  blue-black  eyes  were  brighter  and  blacker 
from  the  ghastly  pallor. 

He  tried  to  rise  when  he  saw  me.  "  Glory  be  to  God," 
he  said  in  a  voice  in  which  there  was  no  trace  of  weakness  ; 
"  but  we  swept  them  fine,  police  and  all !  " 

"  My  poor  fellow,"  I  answered,  "I'm  afraid  you  are 
badly  hurt." 

"  There  is  no  call  to  pity  me,  sir,"  he  answered  cheerily. 
"  I  was  hurted  in  a  good  cause.  Sure,  if  I  was  kilt  in  a 
good  cause,  what  harm  ?  I  wish  you  good  luck  and  God- 
speed, your  honour.  I  fear  there  is  small  chance  of  me 
being  out  again  till  the  battle  is  won  with  the  blessing  of 
God.  But  there  is  no  use  grumbling.  Didn't  I  get  my  full 
share  of  all  the  fun  that  was  going  ?  " 

Contrary  to  the  advice  of  the  more  prudent  of  my  friends, 
I  determined  on  the  polling  day  to  make  a  final  round  of 
the  constituency  and  visit  the  principal  polling  booths,  and 
I  chartered  a  fast  horse  and  outside  car  with  a  plucky  driver 
for  the  perilous  tour. 

Political  opinion  was  curiously  and  sharply  divided 
through  the  division.  In  one  district  they  were  nearly  all 
friends ;  in  the  next  they  were  nearly  all  enemies,  with 
always  an  insignificant  minority  to  keep  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  majority  at  boiling-point.  At  one  village  I  was  received 
with  a  whirlwind  of  welcome,  to  find  my  opponents  hemmed 
away  in  a  corner  like  a  flock  of  sheep  shepherded  by  the 
police.  At  another  village,  not  five  miles  distant,  I  was 
driven  out  under  a  storm  of  "  boos  "  and  a  shower  of  stones. 

Frenchpark,  a  small  town  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Par- 
nellite  district,  I  found  in  complete  possession  of  the  enemy. 
Luckily  there  was  a  friendly  and  fearless  magistrate, 
Captain  McTiernan,  with  a  strong  force  of  police  in  charge.. 
But  the  police  had  quite  enough  to  do  to  keep  the  peace  in 
the  streets,  and  the  Parnellites  had  it  all  their  own  way  in 
the  polling  booths,  where  every  official  was  a  partisan  and 
personation  was  carried  to  a  fine  art.  The  commonplace, 


i84     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

unenterprising  personator  is  content  to  take  upon  himself 
the  name  of  the  voter  who  is  absent  or  dead.  Here  the 
bolder  and  more  ingenious  artist  assumed  the  identity  of 
one  of  my  supporters  and  voted  against  me.  This  was,  of 
course,  a  double-barrelled  shot,  by  which  a  vote  was  lost 
for  me  and  gained  for  my  opponent.  I  encountered  in  the 
town  several  disconsolate  supporters  who  bitterly  com- 
plained that  the  Parnellites  had  "  trespassed  on  their 
names." 

For  an  hour  or  so  I  went  about  from  booth  to  booth 
trying  to  secure  some  semblance  of  fair  play  for  my  friends. 
More  than  once  a  stone  from  the  booing  crowd  whizzed  past 
me  so  close  that  I  felt  the  wind  of  it  on  my  cheek.  Before 
dark  a  clean  sweep  was  made  of  the  register.  Every  name 
on  it  was  polled  out,  though  a  full  fifth  of  the  owners  of 
those  names  were  in  England,  America  or  their  graves.  The 
personators  did  their  work  thoroughly  in  Frenchpark  ! 

All  day  the  excitement  had  been  simmering  hotter  and 
hotter  until,  towards  evening,  it  came  to  boiling-point.  The 
news  which  reached  us  late  in  the  afternoon  that  the  Parnell- 
ites had  captured  three  Dublin  divisions  drove  the  Parnellite 
crowd  in  Frenchpark  mad  with  delight,  and  at  the  closing 
of  the  polling  booths  their  pent-up  energy  was  turned  loose 
into  the  streets.  Naturally,  I  was  the  first  object  of  their 
attentions.  A  stone  sent  my  hat  flying  under  the  feet  of 
Captain  McTiernan,  who,  as  he  picked  it  up  and  handed  it 
back  to  me,  called  out  in  a  loud  voice  : 

"  I  will  order  a  baton  charge  to  clear  the  streets." 

But  I  begged  him  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  had,  I  must 
confess,  a  sneaking  regard  for  those  thoroughgoing  Parnell- 
ites, who  abhorred  me  as  a  "  traitor  to  the  dead  chief  "  and 
dealt  with  me  accordingly.  Zeal  in  a  wrong  cause  is  better, 
anyhow,  than  apathy  in  a  right  one. 

"  As  I  am  the  only  stumbling-block  to  the  peace,"  I  said 
to  the  magistrate,  "  I'll  clear  out  as  quickly  as  I  can." 

"  I  must  honestly  confess,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  you  out  of  the  town  before  dusk.  The 
police  have  charge  of  your  driver  and  car,  and  I'll  have 
them  brought  to  you  here." 


PARLIAMENT  185 

The  car  was  brought  up  at  a  run,  the  driver  cracking  his 
whip  defiantly  in  the  face  of  the  crowd.  I  jumped  on  with- 
out stopping  it,  and  we  fled  helter-skelter  out  of  the  town 
under  a  volley  of  stones  which  rattled  against  the  car  as 
our  parting  salute  from  Frenchpark. 

As  we  got  clear  of  the  town  the  driver  laid  his  whip 
sharply  over  the  flank  of  the  horse,  who  broke  into  a  fast 
trot,  and  we  bumped  along  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an 
hour.  But  at  a  turn  of  the  road  the  horse  was  jerked  up 
so  suddenly  that  I  almost  went  over  on  my  head.  Right 
in  front  of  us,  not  two  hundred  yards  away,  the  road  was 
black  with  a  great  crowd  of  men,  waving  blackthorns  and 
advancing  steadily. 

"  What's  best  to  be  done  now,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  driver. 
"  There's  a  good  few  of  them  in  it." 

I  noticed  he  had  quietly  shifted  his  whip  in  his  hand. 
The  thong  was  coiled  round  his  wrist ;  the  loaded  butt 
swung  free. 

"  Back  or  forward,  sir  ?  "  he  said.    "  Give  the  word." 

We  were  fairly  caught  in  a  trap.  To  turn  back  to  French- 
park  was  even  more  dangerous  than  to  go  forward. 

"  Drive  slowly,"  I  said,  "  until  we  are  within  forty  yards 
or  so,  then  get  your  rug  over  your  head  and  try  to  break 
through." 

As  we  moved  on  cautiously  the  crowd  stood  stock  still 
waiting  our  approach.  It  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  the 
men's  faces,  but  there  was  a  determined  look  about  the 
crowd  that  I  did  not  at  all  enjoy. 

We  were  close  up,  making  ready  for  a  rush,  when  suddenly 
a  thundering  cheer  broke  out : 

"  Hi  for  Bodkin  !  "  they  yelled.    "  Hi  for  Bodkin  !  " 

Never  did  I  so  rejoice  in  the  sound  of  my  own  name. 

Everything  was  plain  in  a  moment.  My  own  crowd  had 
come  out  from  Boyle  to  protect  me.  They  had  heard  that 
I  was  "  hurted  within  in  Frenchpark,"  one  of  their  leaders 
explained,  and  they  were  going  in  "  to  see  about  it."  It 
was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  I  dissuaded  them  from 
marching  straight  on  into  the  enemy's  stronghold. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  counting  of  the  votes 


186     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

began  behind  locked  doors  in  the  court-house.  I  was,  I  am 
free  to  confess,  feverish  with  excitement.  Having  entered 
into  the  campaign  solely  on  the  hope  and  assurance  of  a 
sound  beating,  I  was  prepared  to  regard  defeat  as  an  in- 
tolerable disgrace.  My  veteran  opponent,  James  O'Kelly, 
who  had  faced  dangers  unmoved  in  every  quarter  of  the 
globe,  was  as  excited  as  myself.  His  face  was  as  white  as 
one  of  the  ballot  papers,  and  he  twisted  his  moustache  with 
nervous  fingers.  We  had  been  good  friends  in  the  old  days, 
but  now  we  shook  hands  as  formally  as  prize-fighters  in 
the  ring. 

The  counting  began.  First  the  papers  were  emptied  out 
from  all  the  ballot  boxes  in  one  huge  pile  on  the  great  table 
that  ran  down  the  centre  of  the  room.  Then  twenty  counters 
set  to  work,  opening,  examining  them  and  ranging  them  into 
piles  of  a  hundred  each,  O'Kelly  on  one  side  of  the  table 
and  Bodkin  on  the  other,  while  the  candidates  and  their 
friends  watched  as  closely  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse.  By 
slow  degrees  the  big  heap  of  ballot  papers  grew  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  the  little  heaps  spread  wider  and  wider  over 
the  table. 

At  first,  I  remember,  I  seemed  to  have  it  all  my  own  way. 
Nine  out  of  every  ten  of  the  ballot  papers  had  a  cross  after 
my  name.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  have  a  walk  over. 
Then  O'Kelly  had  his  innings,  and  his  name  was  called  out 
again  and  again  with  irritating  monotony. 

The  great  pile  dwindled  down  to  a  few  scattered  papers, 
and  was  at  last  completely  absorbed  in  the  regiment  of 
smaller  heaps  which  were  arranged  symmetrically  on  either 
side  of  the  table  in  long  columns,  like  the  figures  in  a  big 
sum  of  simple  addition.  There  was  an  incomplete  bundle 
at  the  end  of  each  regiment — seventy-four  for  O'Kelly, 
twenty-six  for  me.  The  sheriff  ran  his  eye  up  and  down  the 
columns,  counting  carefully ;  and  I  tried  to  do  the  same, 
but  the  long  lines  wavered  before  my  eyes.  "  The  same 
number  of  hundreds  on  both  sides,"  the  sheriff  said  at  last. 
"  O'Kelly  wins  by  the  odd  votes.  Forty-eight  majority — 
a  close  shave.  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  O'Kelly,  on  a  hard- 
won  victory." 


PARLIAMENT  187 

My  heart  sank  till  it  seemed  to  leave  a  void  in  my  breast. 
I  looked  round  at  the  blank  faces  of  my  friends  who  had 
fought  so  hard.  Beaten,  after  all ;  I  was  sick  and  weak 
with  disappointment,  and  leant  against  the  table,  or  I  must 
have  fallen. 

The  sheriff  was  half-way  across  the  room  when  one  of  my 
friends  tugged  at  my  arm. 

"  He's  wrong,  sir,"  he  whispered,  "  he's  wrong.  He  has 
counted  one  of  O' Kelly's  bundles  twice  over." 

The  sheriff's  hand  was  on  the  door  knob  when  I  called 
out,  "  Stop  !  "  And  he  looked  round  impatiently. 

"  I  believe  there  has  been  a  mistake,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  I  said. 
"  Will  you  kindly  count  the  bundles  again  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered  politely,  "  with  pleasure." 

This  time  I  counted  with  him.  At  the  first  counting  I 
repeated  his  error,  the  second  I  discovered  it.  One  of 
O' Kelly's  bundles  had  got  out  of  the  plumb-line  and  was 
counted  in  two  columns. 

The  sheriff  at  once  admitted  his  mistake.  "  Bodkin  by 
fifty-two  votes,"  he  said. 

I  had  won  the  closest  contest  in  the  election,  and  I  was 
a  political  prisoner  in  the  House  of  Commons  until  the 
dissolution. 

With  the  joy  of  victory  in  my  heart  I  bolted  from  the 
court-house  door  through  the  great  crowd,  booing  and 
cheering,  to  the  nearest  telegraph  station,  and  forwarded 
to  the  person  most  concerned  in  the  election  a  wire  con- 
sisting merely  of  my  name  with  the  coveted  letters  attached. 

I  must  risk  being  trite  and  tedious  in  my  brief  record  of 
my  parliamentary  experiences  ;  but  there  are  many  details 
of  parliamentary  life  and  procedure  that  become  so  familiar 
to  the  Member  that  he  forgets  they  are  new  and  possibly 
interesting  to  the  outside  public,  so  they  never  find  their 
way  into  books.  With  those  details  a  few  pages  of  parlia- 
mentary gossip  may  be  fairly  filled. 

The  first  indication  of  the  imperial  importance  to  which 
I  had  attained  came  in  the  shape  of  letters  from  the  illus- 
trated papers  requesting  the  favour  of  my  photograph, 
which  nobody  outside  my  own  family  had  previously  de- 


i88     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

sired,  and  of  pressing  invitations  from  house  agents  to  rent 
palaces  at  anything  up  to  £10,000  a  year. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  anxiously  considering  how  I  could  make 
both  ends  meet  on  a  few  hundreds.  My  savings  from  the 
Bar  were  small,  and  my  entrance  to  Parliament  meant  that 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  year  I  should  live  in  London 
while  my  family  lived  in  Dublin — an  increased  expenditure 
and  a  diminished  income.  In  reply  to  the  question,  how 
far  my  absence  would  reduce  the  household  expenses,  I  was 
informed  :  "It  may  make  the  difference  of  five  shillings  a 
week,  but  I  don't  think  it  will." 

Living  in  London  was,  however,  much  cheaper  than  I  had 
expected.  The  Kitchen  Committee  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons caters  for  the  poor  man  as  well  as  for  the  rich  ;  and 
comfortable  lodgings  can  be  had  at  a  reasonable  cost  within 
measurable  distance  of  the  House. 

A  Member  of  Parliament  of  simple  tastes,  who  makes  up 
his  mind,  as  I  did,  to  dispense  with  all  luxuries,  including 
alcohol  and  tobacco,  and  take  all  his  meals  except  breakfast 
within  the  precincts  of  the  House  of  Commons,  can  be  fairly 
comfortable  on  £150  a  year. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EXPERIENCES  OF  AN   IRISH  M.P. 

The  House — The  first  sight  of  Mr.  Gladstone — Turning  out  a  Government 
— The  young  lawyer  Asquith — "  Unparalleled  in  the  records  of  political 
apostasy  " — Dr.  Tanner  as  cup-bearer — Introduction  of  Home  Rule — 
Intense  excitement — Competition  for  places — Triumph  of  Gladstone. 

BUT  it  was  not  until  I  got  to  London,  it  was  not  until  I 
had  walked  down  the  first  day  to  Westminster,  that 
I  realized  the  full  magnitude  and  importance  of  my  position. 
When  I  reached  the  corner  of  the  crossing  facing  the 
Members'  private  entrance,  I  was  not  a  little  perplexed  at 
the  stream  of  traffic  that  flowed  between  me  and  Palace 
Yard.  While  I  stood  irresolute  on  the  curbstone,  like  a 
timid  bather  hesitating  before  his  plunge,  a  policeman 
close  beside  caught  sight  of  my  hesitating  figure. 

"  A  Member,  sir  ?  "  he  said. 

I  nodded.  Instantly  a  stalwart  arm  was  raised  and  then, 
to  my  amazement,  the  miracle  of  the  Red  Sea  was  repeated. 
The  traffic  was  arrested  in  mid-channel,  pawing  horses, 
impatient  cyclists,  lumbering  vans  lined  up  across  the 
street,  and  in  front  was  a  passage  for  the  newly  made 
Member  for  North  Roscommon. 

The  Member  of  Parliament's  precious  old-world  privileges 
of  eluding  his  creditors  and  franking  his  letters  have  been 
abolished,  this  poor  remnant  alone  remains  :  the  traffic 
which  blocks  his  way  to  the  discharge  of  his  senatorial 
duties  is  always  arrested  on  his  approach. 

"  Good  day,  sir,"  said  the  policeman,  with  a  strong 
brogue,  at  the  entrance  to  Westminster,  saluting  as  I  passed 
in  in  a  manner  at  once  respectful  and  familiar.  "  Most  of  the 
gentlemen  are  already  down  at  the  House,  sir.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone has  just  come." 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  mighty  cheer  arose  from  the  crowded 

189 


igo     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

assembly  in  Palace  Yard,  and  a  carriage,  with  an  old  man 
and  an  old  lady  in  the  back  seat  and  a  young  lady  and  a 
child  in  the  front,  came  swiftly  through  the  gate. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  Mr.  Gladstone,  but  I 
knew  him  instantly  from  portrait  and  cartoon.  His  colour 
was  creamy  white,  like  an  old  carving  of  ivory,  his  eyes 
beaming  with  dazzling  brilliancy.  He  was  wreathed  in 
smiles,  and  I  never  knew  a  man  whose  smile  was  more 
delightful.  The  very  wrinkles  about  his  eyes  and  mouth 
were  expressive  of  good-humour  and  delight  as  the  dimples 
of  beauty.  Again  and  again  the  crowd  shouted  its  welcome 
as  he  passed  smiling  through  the  throng  and  disappeared 
into  the  Members'  entrance  to  the  House. 

Entering  the  precincts  of  the  House  of  Commons,  by  a  door 
through  which  under  no  circumstances  can  "  strangers  "  be 
admitted,  I  found  myself  in  a  long  corridor  with  rows  of  in- 
numerable hat-pegs  on  the  wall.  It  was  with  a  curious  little 
shock  of  surprise  that  I  discovered  my  own  name  over  one 
of  the  hat-pegs,  and  under  it  a  miniature  halter  of  red  tape 
to  suspend  my  umbrella.  By  prompt  application  I  secured 
a  locker  big  enough  to  hold  another  hat  (of  whose  use  more 
shall  be  said  presently)  and  papers  and  books.  There  are 
two  Members  for  each  available  locker.  It  is  a  case  of  first 
come  first  served,  and  the  competition  is  keen. 

What  surprises  the  new  Member  most  is  to  find  himself  so 
well  known  by  people  he  has  never  met  in  a  place  where  he 
has  never  been.  The  police  and  officials  whom  I  encountered 
seemed  perfectly  familiar  with  my  appearance,  and  I  passed 
without  parley  into  the  most  sacred  recess  of  the  House 
exclusively  reserved  for  Members. 

I  learned  afterwards  that  there  is  a  special  collection  of 
the  photographs  of  the  Members  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
which  is  carefully  studied  by  the  police  and  officials,  so  that 
they  meet  and  greet  the  new  Members  on  their  first  ap- 
pearances as  old  acquaintances.  Apart,  however,  from 
this  advantage,  the  memory  of  the  attendants  in  the  House 
of  Commons  for  names  and  faces  is  something  that  borders 
on  the  miraculous. 

There  is  an  old  story  (I  cannot  vouch  for  its  truth),  that 


From  a  photograph  by  the  London  Stereoscopic  Co.,  Ltd. 

THE  RIGHT  HON.  W.  E.  GL \DSTONE 


EXPERIENCES  OF  AN   IRISH  M.P.          191 

on'one^occasion  the  lights  went  out  when  the  truant  Mem- 
bers were  crowding  into  the  House  for  an  important  division. 
Some  of  the  general  public  tried  to  mingle  with  the  crowd 
who  poured  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  House  ;  but  at 
the  door  stood  the  ponderous  guardian  of  the  place,  a  big 
and  stately  personage  with  the  face  and  figure  of  a  glorified 
butler,  and  he,  recognizing  his  flock  by  their  voices  alone, 
separated  the  sheep  from  the  goats  at  the  entrance. 

For  the  first  two  days  I  wandered  disconsolate  about  the 
long  galleries  and  corridors  of  the  House,  on  the  third  day 
one  of  the  officials  approached  me  with  an  extraordinary 
request. 

Addressing  me  by  my  name,  although  I  had  never  spoken 
to  him  or  seen  him  before,  he  said  :  "  I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favour." 

"  With  pleasure,"  I  answered,  "  if  it  is  in  my  power." 

"Oh,  there  is  no  difficulty  about  that,"  he  said.  "I 
merely  desire  that  you  will  show  some  lady  friends  of  mine 
over  the  House." 

I  must  say  the  request  took  me  by  surprise.  "  My  dear 
fellow,"  I  protested,  "  you  could  not  possibly  have  come  to  a 
worse  man  than  myself.  I  would  lose  myself  a  dozen  times 
in  the  corridors  and  passages." 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  returned,  "  I  will  go  with  you 
myself  and  show  you  the  way." 

"  But  why  not  show  the  ladies  the  way  instead  of  showing 
it  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,"  he  answered;  "that  privilege  is  reserved  for 
the  Members.  You  will  forgive  the  liberty  I  have  taken, 
but  whenever  the  officials  of  the  House  require  favours 
from  the  Members  it  is  always  the  Irish  Members  they  ask." 

So  it  came  about  I  showed  a  number  of  charming  ladies 
all  round  the  House  of  Commons  while  it  was  still  a  per- 
plexing maze  to  myself ;  and  like  many  a  teacher  I  learned  a 
lot  from  my  pupils. 

Mr.  Gladstone,  in  spite  of  "  the  Parnell  split,"  had  come 
back  with  a  majority  of  forty  pledged  to  Home  Rule.  The 
first  step,  of  course,  was  to  expel  from  office  the  Unionist 
minority,  who  clung  to  their  posts  with  desperate  tenacity. 


192     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

It  was  a  brilliant  attack,  and  the  magnitude  of  issue  involved 
enhanced  the  excitement  of  the  struggle.  The  vote  of 
censure  on  the  Government  was  moved  by  a  young  lawyer 
named  Asquith,  then  first  emerging  from  obscurity,  now 
Prime  Minister  of  England,  in  a  fighting  speech,  full  of 
oratorical  sword-play,  brilliant  and  pitiless.  One  sentence 
alone  of  the  speech  lives  in  my  memory.  He  charged  the 
Liberal  Unionists  who  sat  beside  him  in  the  Opposition  with 
having  been  guilty  of  a  "  treason  unparalleled  in  the  annals 
of  political  apostasy." 

This  phrase  gave  special  bitterness  to  the  debate  that 
followed,  and  the  accusation  was  repelled  by  speaker  after 
speaker  with  a  fine  show  of  indignation.  It  was  to  the  novice 
a  splendid  and  stately  drama  full  of  interest  and  excitement, 
yet  the  concluding  scene  almost  culminated  in  a  farce.  A 
little  before  midnight  a  pompous  member  of  the  Government, 
proudly  swelling  at  his  opportunity,  with  the  superb  self- 
consciousness  of  a  turkey-cock,  rose  to  close  the  debate. 

The  spirit  of  mischievous  schoolboys  suddenly  inspired 
the  great  Legislative  assembly.  The  orator  was  a  big  man 
with  big  gestures  and  a  very  small  voice.  He  had,  it  was 
often  said,  all  the  attributes  of  a  great  orator  except  elo- 
quence. 

As  he  rose  to  speak,  the  rumour  ran  round  the  House  that 
two  Tories  had  missed  their  trains.  Every  vote  in  the 
division  was,  of  course,  of  vital  importance,  and  the  pompous, 
self-complacent  orator  was  speaking  against  time. 

The  rumour  filled  the  place  with  instant  tumult ;  the 
voices  of  a  score  of  quick-witted  Irish  tormentors  played 
round  the  ponderous  orator  as  swallows  round  a  crow. 
Every  sentence  of  his  was  twisted  from  its  meaning  by 
some  comical  interpretation,  the  chorus  of  laughter  and 
applause  never  slackened  for  a  moment.  The  unhappy  man, 
tied  as  it  were  to  the  orator's  stake  and  compelled  to  fight 
the  round,  alternately  protested,  entreated  and  appealed  all 
to  no  purpose.  His  gestures  were  ample  and  awe-inspiring 
to  the  last,  but  his  voice  died  slowly  away  to  a  mere  husky 
squeak  before  the  terrible  ordeal  was  over. 

The  climax  came  when  the  most  audacious  and  uncon- 


EXPERIENCES  OF  AN  IRISH  M.P.         193 

ventional  Member  of  the  Irish  Party,  the  irrepressible  Dr. 
Tanner,  was  seen  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd  at  the 
Bar  of  the  House.  With  a  profound  obeisance  to  the 
Speaker,  he  marched  slowly  up  the  floor  between  the  densely 
thronged  benches,  a  large  tumbler  of  amber-coloured 
liquor  held  conspicuously  in  his  right  hand.  The  shriek  of 
laughter  that  rent  the  House  from  all  quarters  made  the 
orator  turn  at  last.  But  when  he  met  the  bland  smile  of  the 
mocking  Ganymede,  who  stood  with  the  big  tumbler  at  his 
elbow,  he  almost  collapsed.  One  imploring  glance  for 
release  he  gave  his  leader,  who  was  stretching  his  long  legs 
on  the  bench  beside  him,  but  with  a  quick  imperative 
gesture  the  leader  told  him  the  time  was  not  yet  come, 
so  the  speaker  went  stumbling  on  again,  helpless  and  hope- 
less, through  the  ever-growing  tumult. 

Slowly  the  hands  of  the  clock  began  to  join  one  another 
at  midnight.  A  hundred  impatient  voices  shouted,  "  Time  ! 
Time  !  "  and  the  impotent  orator  subsided  at  last. 

The  Speaker  rose,  stately  and  impressive,  to  put  the 
question  on  which  the  fate  of  the  Government  depended. 
There  followed  a  storm  of  "  ayes  "  and  answering  clamour  of 
"  noes." 

"  I  declare  the  noes  have  it,"  said  the  Speaker.  He  knew 
the  ayes  had  it  well  enough,  but  it  is  the  custom  of  the 
Speaker  to  declare  for  the  Government  of  the  day,  whom, 
it  is  assumed,  command  a  majority  until  there  is  proof  to 
the  contrary. 

"  The  ayes  have  it !  "  yelled  out  the  Liberals,  and  a 
division  was  called. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  division  I  had  almost  plunged 
headlong  through  the  door  of  the  wrong  lobby  when  one  of 
the  Irish  Whips  captured  me  by  the  coat-tails  and  put  me 
right.  We  were  packed  tight  as  herrings  in  a  barrel  in  the 
division  lobby,  and  the  crowd  pushed  and  wedged  them- 
selves one  at  a  time  through  the  passage.  At  long  last  I 
found  myself  duly  ticked  off  by  the  clerks  at  the  turnstile, 
duly  counted  by  the  Whips,  and  back  in  the  House  waiting 
impatiently  for  the  momentous  verdict. 

The   interval   seemed   interminable,    so   great    was   the 


194 

impatient  tension  of  suspense,  though  hardly  a  minute 
elapsed  until  the  Whips  marched  two  by  two  up  the  floor 
of  the  House,  the  tally  papers  in  their  hands.  There  was 
a  roar  of  applause  when  the  Opposition  Whips  came  to 
the  right-hand  side — a  proof  of  victory.  Then  in  a  sudden 
hush,  still  as  death,  the  figures  were  read — 350  to  310.  The 
old  Government  was  out  and  the  new  Government  was  in  by 
a  majority  of  forty. 

Later  on  I  may  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  of  what  I 
learned  of  the  tricks  and  ways  of  the  House  of  Commons 
during  a  month  or  so  of  dull  routine,  which  lasted  till  the 
new  Government  had  settled  comfortably  into  their  places. 
For  the  present  I  will  skip  to  the  day  when  Mr.  Gladstone, 
for  the  second  time,  introduced  to  the  British  House  of 
Commons  a  measure  for  Home  Rule  for  Ireland. 

As  the  day  approached,  curiosity  and  excitement  de- 
veloped into  a  fever.    To  avoid  the  invasion  of  Westminster 
by  legislators  at  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  the  Speaker 
ordained  that  the  doors  of  the  Chamber  itself  should  not  be 
opened  before  noon.     The  only  result  was  to  keep  the 
crowd  some  hours  longer  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door. 
From  the  very  earliest  dawn  the  lobby  that  led  directly  to 
the  main  entrance  of  the  Legislative  Chamber  was  thronged 
to  suffocation  by  eager  and  impatient  legislators.    At  first 
there  was  some  pretence  at  order  and  decorum.    Two  long 
rows  of  chairs  stretched  from  the  great  doors  right  across  the 
lobby  with  a  Member  seated  in  each ;  but  hours  before  the 
time  fixed  for  the  opening  excitement  got  the  better  of 
patience.    The  chairs  were  abandoned,  and  the  great  crowd 
pressed  and  swayed  against  the  double  row  of  constables 
that  formed  a  good-humoured  but  insurmountable  barrier 
between  them  and  the  carved  doors  of  the  sacred  Chamber 
itself.     For  two  long  hours  we  stood  squeezed  tight  as 
sardines  in  a  tin,  with  faces  set  immovably  towards  the 
entrance,  and  the  long  wait  was  beguiled  with  good-humoured 
banter,  in  which  "  sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech  "  were  freely 
interchanged.    At  eleven  o'clock  a  man  came  to  wind  the 
clock  over  the  door,  and  was  overwhelmed  with  piteous 
appeals  to  give  the  hands  just  one  turn  more. 


EXPERIENCES  OF  AN   IRISH  M.P.          195 

At  last,  just  as  Big  Ben  boomed  out  twelve,  making  the 
air  shake  with  the  deep  sound  of  the  strokes,  the  double  row 
of  obstructive  policemen  melted  away.  The  doors  suddenly 
opened,  and  the  tumultuous  crowd  of  excited  legislators 
went  through  into  the  solemn  Chamber  like  a  mill-stream 
when  the  dam  goes  down. 

I  had  done  a  little  football  in  my  time,  but  I  had  never 
been  in  a  scrimmage  so  rough  and  fierce  as  this  great 
stampede  of  Members  that  went  tearing  along  the  floor  of  the 
"  most  august  assembly  in  the  world." 

We  swept  like  a  drove  of  cattle  along  the  passages, 
scattered  and  scrambled  like  monkeys  over  the  benches, 
and  in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  there  was  a  hat  on  every  seat  in 
the  Chamber.  I  was  lucky  in  the  scramble,  and  secured  a 
corner  seat  almost  facing  Mr.  Gladstone's  place  on  the 
Treasury  bench  opposite.  By  prayer-time  every  lane  and 
alley  of  the  Chamber  was  crammed  as  tight  as  they  could 
hold  with  imported  chairs,  every  stair  of  the  gangways  was 
claimed  by  a  hat. 

The  various  galleries,  however,  reserved  for  ladies,  for 
distinguished  personages,  and  for  the  Peers  and  the  general 
public  were  still  empty.  Until  prayers  are  over  no  stranger 
is  admitted  to  the  precincts,  but  as  the  final  "  Amen  "  was 
pronounced  by  the  Chaplain  of  the  House  the  sound  of  a 
second  and  still  more  excited  scramble  broke  upon  my  ears. 

Glancing  to  the  Peers'  Gallery,  I  was  just  in  time  to  see 
the  Ancient  Nobility  of  England  a  confused  whirl  of  lordly 
legs  and  arms,  all  struggling  together  in  inexplicable  con- 
fusion, tumble  into  the  narrow  receptacle  the  House  of 
Commons  provides  for  the  peerage. 

The  House  settled  down  for  a  while  with  outward  calm 
to  the  transaction  of  ordinary  business,  but  all  the  time 
there  was  a  tenseness  in  the  atmosphere  which  spoke  of  a 
coming  storm,  and  when  at  last  the  Grand  Old  Man  himself 
appeared,  debonnaire  as  a  bridegroom,  with  a  fresh  rosebud 
in  his  button-hole,  the  whole  place  went  mad  once  more 
with  unrestrained  excitement.  Irish  Nationalists  and 
English  Liberals  leaped  to  their  feet,  waving  their  hats  and 
cheering  until  the  vast  volume  of  sound  seemed  to  shake 


196     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

the  carved  roof  of  the  historic  Chamber,  which  in  all  its 
long  and  varied  history  had  never  witnessed  a  more  ex- 
hilarating scene.  Then  suddenly  the  sound  died  out  to  still 
silence,  for  the  speech  so  long  and  so  eagerly  looked  for  had 
begun,  and  the  greatest  statesman  and  orator  of  his  genera- 
tion was  unfolding  the  details  of  his  proposed  treaty  of 
peace  between  two  nations  whose  bitter  feud  had  lasted 
through  seven  centuries. 

His  voice  was  low  at  first,  but  gathered  power  at  every 
word  till  it  filled  the  building,  strong  and  pure,  like  the 
master  tones  of  an  organ.  No  attribute  of  an  orator  was, 
in  my  poor  judgment,  lacking  in  that  marvellous  speech — 
lucid  exposition,  clear  reasoning,  passionate  appeal,  captured 
alike  the  hearts  and  minds  of  his  hearers.  Erect,  alert, 
with  word  and  face  and  gesture  fitted  to  the  thought,  in 
that  miraculous  man  the  vigour  of  youth  and  the  dignity  of 
age  were  marvellously  combined. 

It  was  not  in  any  sense  a  fighting  speech.  There  was  no 
attack  on  opponents,  nothing  that  rasped  or  jarred. 

Truth  the  mild  robe  of  soft  persuasion  wore, 
And  e'en  reluctant  party  felt  awhile 
That  magic  power. 

Unionists  were  so  carried  away  by  his  eloquence  that 
they  applauded  with  the  Home  Rulers.  We  lost  count  of 
time  while  he  spoke.  Not  a  man  in  the  room,  friend  or  foe, 
was  unmoved  by  the  thrilling  earnestness  of  his  voice.  When 
he  closed  with  a  peroration  of  surpassing  eloquence,  dead 
silence  followed, — the  silence  of  strong  feeling.  Then  cheers 
broke  out  unrestrained  from  all  sides  of  the  House. 

Speaking  for  one  man  alone,  he  completely  captured  me, 
heart  and  soul.  The  strain  of  enthusiasm  became  almost 
unbearable  :  I  listened  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  as  the  great 
speech  drew  to  a  close,  in  solemn  majestic  rhythm,  sublime 
as  the  utterance  of  an  inspired  prophet ;  I  felt  as  if  nothing 
could  resist  him,  that  Home  Rule  was  already  won  by  a 
unanimous  vote. 

The  moment  Mr.  Gladstone  sat  down  a  young  Irish 
Unionist  barrister,  Dick  Dane,  a  friend  of  my  own,  who  had 
just  come  to  the  House,  with  splendid  audacity  sprang  to  his 


EXPERIENCES  OF  AN   IRISH  M.P.          197 

feet  to  answer  him.  But  the  Speaker  looked  the  other  way, 
and  Sir  Edward  Clarke  replied  as  spokesman  of  the  Oppo- 
sition. 

There  followed  a  general  engagement,  in  which  the  big 
guns  on  the  Front  Benches  opened  fire  in  succession  on  one 
side  or  another,  and  a  vast  amount  of  argument  and  elo- 
quence was  expended  without  changing  a  vote.  The  second 
reading  of  the  Bill  was  carried  by  the  expected  majority  of 
forty,  and  we  lapsed  into  the  dull  tedium  of  committee, 
where  the  Unionists,  turning  the  weapons  of  the  Irish 
party  against  themselves,  obstructed  remorselessly.  But 
there  were  none  of  the  lively  excursions  and  alarms  of  Irish 
obstruction,  it  was  a  weary,  weary  time  of  frivolous  amend- 
ments, dull  speeches  and  incessant  tramps  through  the 
division  lobbies. 


CHAPTER  XX 
HUMOURS  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS 

"Efficacy  of  prayer" — The  Speaker's  procession — Hats — Gladstone's 
comical  experience — The  hard-worked — "  Hear !  hear !  " — Guy  Fawkes 
up-to-date — Searching  the  vaults  for  gunpowder — Socialism  and 
sociality — Gladstone's  surprise  speech — Biggar's  formula,  "  All  real 
here,  mister." 

MEANWHILE  I  was  learning  my  way  about  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  almost  my  first  lesson 
was  concerned  with  the  "  efficacy  of  prayer,"  though 
hardly  in  the  sense  by  which  the  phrase  is  understood  by 
theologians.  It  is  ordained  that  every  sitting  of  the  House 
is  opened  with  prayer,  and  the  devout  attendance  of  the 
Members  is  ingeniously  enforced. 

I  remember  well  with  what  a  shock  of  surprise  I  got  my 
first  peep  at  the  Speaker  in  his  regimentals.  I  was  coming 
down  a  long  corridor  with  a  glass  door  at  the  end  of  it,  when 
a  confusion  of  electric  bells  began  to  ring  here,  there  and 
everywhere  all  over  the  place.  A  great  red-bearded  police- 
man on  duty  just  behind  the  glass  door  seemed  shaken  with 
convulsions,  his  whole  body  contracted  for  a  mighty  effort, 
his  knees  bent,  his  hands  doubled  up,  his  mouth  opened  wide, 
then  all  at  once  a  roar  rang  through  the  building  that  shook 
the  windows. 

"  Speaker !  "  yelled  the  policeman  with  the  full  force  of 
his  lungs. 

"  Hats  off,  Speaker  !  "  came  the  cry  from  the  attendants, 
and  up  through  the  long  corridor  there  swept  a  procession 
that  seemed  to  come  right  out  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The 
Speaker  himself  moved  at  its  head,  stately,  austere,  in  a  big 
beehive  wig  and  flowing  black  robes.  Behind  him  came  the 
Serjeant-at-Arms  in  antique  dress  of  black  silk  and  white 
lace,  a  sheathed  rapier  at  his  side  and  the  huge  gilded  mace, 

198 


HUMOURS  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS    199 

"  the  bauble  "  that  Cromwell  spoke  of  so  contemptuously, 
borne  on  his  shoulder.  The  Speaker's  chaplain  in  robes 
and  bands  represented  the  spiritual  element  of  the  cere- 
monial. 

As  the  procession  passed  the  cry  grew  more  deafening. 
"  Speaker,  Speaker.  Hats  off,  strangers !  "  and  the  pro- 
cession slowly  wound  itself  through  the  lobby  into  the 
Legislative  Chamber  through  the  carved  door  which  closed 
behind  it. 

To  encourage  devotion  among  the  Members,  it  is  arranged 
that  only  those  who  are  present  at  prayers  can  secure  seats 
for  the  day.  The  method  of  securing  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Commons  approaches  a  fine  art.  The  early  Member  takes 
the  early  seat  by  planting  on  it  his  hat  and  a  card  inscribed 
with  "  Prayers  "  in  big  letters.  But  his  right  is  established 
only  until  prayer-time.  If  he  be  absent  from  prayers,  any 
more  devout  Member  may  "  jump  his  claim,"  removing  the 
hat  and  card.  Prayers  over,  a  little  printed  card  stuck  in  a 
brass  sconce  at  the  back  of  the  seat  secures  the  rights  of 
exclusive  occupation  till  the  rising  of  the  House. 

The  rule,  like  all  rules,  is  liable  to  evasion  and  abuse. 
Mr.  Bradlaugh's  irreligious  scruples  were  too  strong  to 
permit  him  to  be  present  in  the  House  at  prayer-time,  but,  as 
I  was  told,  he  used  to  watch  at  the  open  door  with  hat  in 
hand  ready  to  pounce  for  a  seat  the  moment  "  Amen  "  was 
intoned. 

It  is  on  record  that  Dr.  Tanner,  on  one  memorable 
occasion  in  his  zealous  discharge  of  his  duty  as  Whip  of  the 
Irish  party,  came  down  to  the  House  at  dawn  with  a  cab- 
load  of  old  hats  to  secure  seats  for  his  leaders. 

It  is  here  that  the  spare  hat  in  the  locker  came  in  handy. 
"  One  man  one  hat  "  was  the  rule  laid  down  by  the  Speaker, 
but  it  was  more  honoured  in  the  breach  than  the  observance, 
and  many  a  Member  paraded  the  City  in  the  forenoon  with 
his  best  hat  on  his  head  while  his  second  best  stood  sentinel 
on  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

The  hat,  I  may  add,  plays  a  tremendous  part  in  parlia- 
mentary procedure.  Woe  betide  the  incautious  novice  who 
wears  it  when  he  should  not,  or  doesn't  wear  it  when  he 


200     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

should.  His  crime  is  almost  as  great  as  if  he  had 
passed  between  the  speaking  Member  and  the  Speaker, 
and  his  horror-stricken  colleagues  roar  "  Order !  Order !  " 
at  him  as  fiercely  as  if  he  had  committed  the  unpardon- 
able sin. 

The  accomplished  Member  of  the  House  of  Commons 
prides  himself  on  the  "  nice  conduct  of  a  cloudless  hat." 
The  unwritten  law  ordains  that  a  Member  must  wear  his  hat 
when  he  is  sitting,  and  must  not  wear  it  when  he  is  standing. 
Before  a  division  is  called  it  is  a  gross  breach  of  order  to 
address  the  House  with  hat  on,  after  division  is  called  it  is 
just  as  gross  a  breach  of  order  to  address  the  House  with 
hat  off. 

I  remember  once  Mr.  Gladstone  was  himself  the  victim  of 
the  rule.  The  Front  Bench  men,  ministers  and  ex-ministers, 
who  enjoy  their  seats  by  prescriptive  right,  and  don't  need 
hats  to  secure  them,  always  come  bareheaded  into  the 
House. 

A  division  was  called,  Mr.  Gladstone  desired  to  address 
the  Speaker  on  a  point  of  order ;  his  hat  was  in  his  own 
room,  the  hats  of  his  colleagues  were  in  theirs.  What  was 
to  be  done  ?  A  whisper  ran  round  the  benches,  and  from 
afar  off  an  humble  supporter  of  the  Grand  Old  Man  sent  his 
hat  to  the  rescue.  But  in  the  hurry  there  had  been  no  time 
to  pick  and  choose,  and  the  hat  was  half  a  dozen  sizes  too 
small  for  Mr.  Gladstone.  It  perched  rakishly  on  the  high, 
white  dome  of  his  head  while  he  solemnly  addressed  the 
Speaker  amid  roars  of  laughter  from  an  irreverent 
House. 

But  Mr.  Gladstone,  I  observed,  did  not  laugh.  Nor  did 
he,  I  am  sure,  in  the  slightest  degree  appreciate  either  the 
humour  of  the  situation  or  the  absurdity  of  the  rule.  To  him 
it  was  an  ancient  tradition  of  the  House,  and  that  alone  was 
sufficient  to  secure  its  respectful  observance. 

During  my  few  years  in  Parliament  I  often  observed  with 
surprise  that  this  very  great  man  was  a  rigid  stickler  for 
very  small  observances  and  ceremonial.  He  was  specially 
a  martinet  in  regard  to  the  rules  governing  the  conduct  of 
the  House,  and  I  have  still  before  me,  as  one  of  the  most 


HUMOURS  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS    201 

comical  pictures  I  have  ever  seen,  the  grave  decorum  of 
face  and  voice  with  which  he  addressed  the  Speaker,  balanc- 
ing that  ridiculous  little  hat  on  his  head  with  the  skill  of  an 
acrobat. 

By  an  imperative  custom  of  the  House  of  Commons  its 
Members  can  only  express  their  feelings  by  the  repetition 
of  the  word  "  Hear,  hear !  "  No  other  word  is  "in 
order." 

But  this  monosyllable,  as  employed  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  is  the  most  expressive  word  in  the  language. 
There  is  no  sentiment  in  the  entire  gamut  of  feeling  that 
cannot  be  conveyed  by  the  "  hear,  hear  "  of  an  experienced 
Member  of  Parliament — admiration,  approval,  affection, 
enthusiasm,  indignation,  contempt,  ridicule,  all  are  within 
the  compass  of  this  one  word. 

Humpty  Dumpty  in  "  Alice  in  Wonderland,"  who  made 
any  word  mean  exactly  what  he  chose  it  to  mean,  had  not 
more  dominion  over  his  subjects  than  a  skilled  operator 
exercises  over  the  parliamentary  monosyllable,  which  for 
many  Members  constitutes  their  entire  parliamentary 
vocabulary. 

Apropos  of  this,  I  might  mention  an  amusing  incident 
that  occurred  at  a  later  date  in  my  experience  of  the 
House. 

The  present  Lord  Salisbury  was  holding  forth  on 
School  Board  Education  in  a  speech  replete  with  tiresome 
technical  statistics  of  attendance  and  expenditure.  The  dull 
sentences  poured  along  like  the  brook,  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  an  end  to  the  oration. 
Suddenly  an  Irish  Member  emphasized  a  statement  with 
regard  to  "  two  pence  three  farthings  "  with  the  "  hear, 
hear  "  of  rapturous  approval. 

The  hint  was  instantly  taken.  At  the  close  of  every 
sentence  of  the  trite  and  tiresome  harangue  there  came  a 
burst  of  such  wild  and  spontaneous  enthusiasm  as  had 
never  been  evoked  by  the  most  eloquent  peroration  of  Mr. 
Gladstone's.  At  first  it  seemed  as  though  the  orator  fancied 
he  had  moved  the  hearts  of  the  Members  by  his  appeal. 
But  the  continued  and  uproarious  applause  slowly  forced 


202     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

upon  his  mind  the  suspicion  of  an  ironical  demonstration. 
He  struggled  on  for  a  few  sentences,  amid  the  ever-growing 
enthusiasm,  then  suddenly  he  collapsed  and  sat  down  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence. 

Whatever  the  party  in  power,  the  House  of  Commons 
itself  is  essentially  a  conservative  institution.  It  despises 
the  Shakespearean  warning  : — 

What  custom  wills  in  all  things  should  we  do, 
The  dust  of  antique  time  would  be  unswept. 

"The  dust  of  antique  time"  is  all  over  the  place.  Absurd 
old  customs  dating  back  to  the  Middle  Ages,  customs  which 
have  lost  all  meaning  with  the  flux  of  years,  are  preserved 
in  the  House  of  Commons  with  all  the  sanctity  of  religious 
observances. 

I  was  lounging  in  the  empty  Legislative  Chamber  one 
morning  before  the  House  sat,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps 
at  the  door  attracted  my  attention,  and  looking  round 
suddenly,  I  could  hardly  believe  that  my  astonished  eyes 
saw  what  they  seemed  to  see.  I  was  taken  back  again  into 
the  days  when  Charles  II  was  king.  This  big,  quiet  Chamber 
with  its  wide  rows  of  empty  benches  was  suddenly  alive 
with  the  figures  and  costumes  of  the  reign  of  the  liveliest  of 
the  Stuarts. 

A  troop  of  "  Beef-eaters,"  with  their  white  tunics  and 
buff  breeches,  coloured  hose  and  apple-pie  hats  bedecked 
with  variegated  ribbons,  moved  solemnly  down  the  centre  of 
the  House,  and  each  as  he  moved  swung  from  his  finger  an 
old  horn  lantern.  A  stately  person  in  antique  Court  dress 
paced  in  front  of  this  grotesque  procession.  For  a  moment 
I  was  unable,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  to  place  the 
performance,  then  suddenly  it  dawned  on  me.  I  had  heard 
vaguely  of  this  pageant  before.  It  was  Guy  Fawkes  who 
was  responsible :  the  "  Beef -eaters,"  according  to  custom, 
stretching  back  through  many  centuries,  were  on  their  way 
with  dim  horn  lanterns  to  search  the  electric-lit  cellars  of 
the  House  of  Commons  for  gunpowder  barrels  and  masked 
conspirators.  The  absurd  make-belief  was  conducted  with 
the  utmost  solemnity.  The  mummers  and  the  few  English 
Members  who  respectfully  followed  the  extraordinary 


HUMOURS  OF  THE   HOUSE  OF  COMMONS    203 

procession  were  grave  in  their  demeanour  as  the  attendants 
at  a  funeral,  no  one  smiled  but  myself. 

By  a  scarcely  less  grotesque  ceremonial,  statutes  which 
have  made  their  perilous  way  through  both  Houses  of 
Parliament  finally  receive  the  Royal  assent  and  so  pass  into 
law. 

I  have  but  a  dim  recollection  of  once  witnessing  the 
performance.  There  were  a  number  of  figures  in  wigs  and 
gowns  and  curious  robes,  who  moved  like  puppets  through 
the  ceremonial.  One,  I  remember,  read  in  a  droning 
voice  the  title  of  the  Act ;  the  other  twisted  sharp  round, 
as  if  moved  by  clockwork,  and  jerked  out  like  the  bird  of 
the  cuckoo  clock  in  a  mechanical  voice  :  "La  reine  le 
veut,"  and  straightway  the  Bill  became  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment. 

I  think  it  is  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  that  somewhere  puts 
the  question  whether  life  is  a  small  bundle  of  big  things,  or 
a  big  bundle  of  little  things.  The  latter  would  more  probably 
be  the  description  of  the  life  in  the  House  of  Commons,  at 
least  during  my  experience;  for  one  lively  or  exciting  day 
we  had  a  week's  monotony. 

The  House  has  been  described  as  the  best  club  in  the 
world,  and  in  one  essential  it  amply  merits  the  description. 
No  man  dare  play  the  snob  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the 
strength  of  his  rank  or  his  money.  Over  its  portals  might 
be  written:  "All  'side'  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 
Cook's  son  and  duke's  son  are  on  perfect  equality ;  and  if 
the  cook's  son  is  a  clever  fellow  and  the  duke's  son — as 
sometimes  happens — is  a  fool,  the  cook's  son  is  courted  by 
the  Members  and  the  duke's  son  is  ignored.  In  the  smoking- 
room  especially  this  social  freemasonry  is  most  conspicuous. 
The  man  who  wants  a  banquet  and  the  man  who  wants  a 
beefsteak  cannot  well  dine  at  the  same  table.  But  in  the 
smoking-room  all  class  distinctions  are  abolished.  Equality 
and  geniality  prevail.  There  the  Members  of  all  shades  of 
politics  and  with  all  kinds  of  smoking  utensils,  from  a  half- 
crown  cigar  to  a  clay  pipe,  forgather  on  terms  of  perfect 
equality.  In  comparison  with  the  Legislative  Chamber 
the  smoking-room  is  the  Palace  of  Truth.  Nationalists 


204     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

and  Unionists  met  there  on  the  most  friendly  terms 
at  the  same  tables.  The  opposition  so  vehement  in  the 
House  was  practically  abandoned  in  the  smoking-room. 

I  remember  well  on  one  occasion,  just  after  Mr.  Gladstone's 
great  speech  introducing  the  Home  Rule  Bill,  I  asked  a 
prominent  Conservative,  Mr.  Hanbury,  afterwards  one  of  the 
ablest  members  of  a  Unionist  Cabinet : 

"  How  would  you  vote  if  Mr.  Balfour  made  that  speech 
instead  of  Mr.  Gladstone  ?  " 

"  That,"  he  answered,  laughing,  "  is  not  a  fair  question 
even  for  the  smoking-room,"  and  I  did  not  press  for  any 
further  reply. 

Now  and  again,  of  course,  the  sharp  stress  and  strain  of 
party  feeling  dominated  all  personal  feelings,  but  as  a  rule 
personal  friendship  ran  in  the  most  curious  way,  zigzag  across 
the  line  of  party  divisions.  To  take  one  illustration,  there 
was  no  man  more  popular  with  the  Irish  party  than  poor 
old  Johnston  of  Ballykilbeg,  and  I  think  he  reciprocated 
our  friendly  feeling. 

I  remember  he  once  cordially  invited  me  to  join  a  I2th  of 
July  demonstration  in  Belfast.  "  Why,"  I  replied,  "  a 
papist  would  be  killed  if  he  showed  his  nose  on  such  an 
occasion."  "  Not  if  you  come  with  me,"  he  answered,  a 
proviso  that  was  not  wholly  encouraging,  and  I  respectfully 
declined  the  invitation. 

On  some  other  occasion  some  chartered  bore  was  delivering 
a  long-winded  oration  when  old  Johnston  suddenly,  apropos 
of  nothing  at  all,  moved  the  adjournment  of  the  House. 
The  spirit  of  mischief  tempted  me  to  second  the  motion, 
and  the  conjunction  so  delighted  the  assembly,  with  whom 
a  small  joke  always  went  a  long  way,  that  it  was  almost 
unanimously  carried,  and  we  broke  up  tumultuously  like 
schoolboys  at  an  unexpected  half-holiday. 

Humour  is  indeed  keenly  appreciated  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  which  loves  a  joke  however  poor  or  small.  It 
will  roar  with  laughter  if  a  nervous  speaker  collapses  on  his 
own  hat,  or  an  excited  orator  in  the  full  fury  of  his  eloquence 
batters  the  hat  of  a  brother  Member  over  his  eyes.  The 
man  who,  like  Mr.  Healy,  amuses  the  House  can  do  what 


HUMOURS  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS    205 

he  likes  with  it,  anything  and  everything  will  be  for- 
given him. 

Perhaps  the  explanation  for  this  craving  for  diversion  is 
to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  all  forms  of  entertainment 
are  rigorously  excluded  from  the  precincts  of  West- 
minster. 

No  game  is  allowed  except  the  laborious  game  of  chess.  In 
the  vast  library  light  literature  is  to  a  great  extent  tabooed, 
and  the  long  monotonous  rows  of  heavy  books  of  reference 
have  a  decidedly  depressing  effect.  No  wonder  Members 
wander  into  the  smoking-room  for  a  lounge  and  a  gossip 
when  a  bore  is  in  possession  of  the  Legislative  Chamber. 

The  bete  noir  of  the  smoking-room  is  the  division  bell. 
Just  as  you  have  lit  up  and  leant  back  in  a  particularly 
cosy  arm-chair  for  a  pleasant  chat  the  infernal  "  tingle, 
tingle,"  is  heard  in  all  places  at  once,  seeming  to  pervade 
the  entire  air,  persistent,  insistent,  not-to-be-denied. 

You  have  to  go  rushing  up  narrow  staircases  and  through 
long  corridors  to  record  your  vote  on  some  question,  the 
merits  and  demerits  of  which  you  are  absolutely  ignorant, 
though  it  may  chance  that  the  very  existence  of  the  Govern- 
ment hangs  upon  the  decision. 

Of  course,  you  are  not  allowed  to  carry  a  lighted  cigar  or 
pipe  through  the  division  lobby,  and  I  remember  it  was 
esteemed  a  notable  feat  to  get  through  the  lobby  and  record 
your  vote  in  time  to  catch  cigar  or  pipe  still  alight  on  the 
marble  table  of  the  smoking-room,  where  you  laid  it  when 
the  division  bell  rang  out  its  insistent  summons. 

Another  drawback  to  the  perfect  comfort  of  the  smok- 
ing room,  especially  when  Mr.  Gladstone  was  still  in 
the  House,  was  the  feeling  that  lounging  idly  there  you 
might  miss  something  really  good  in  the  Legislative 
Chamber. 

You  could  never  tell  when  that  miraculous  old  man  would 
electrify  the  proceedings  with  a  matchless  oration.  On 
one  occasion  "  in  the  mid  waste  and  middle '"  of  dinner-hour, 
when  the  Legislative  Chamber  was  almost  empty,  he  took 
it  into  his  head  to  trounce  Mr.  Chamberlain,  a  task  which  he 
accomplished  with  unrivalled  freedom  and  finish.  By  great 


206     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

good  luck  I  happened  to  be  in  the  House  at  the  time  :  I 
was  one  of  the  few  who  were  so  fortunate.  The  speech  was 
as  short  as  it  was  brilliant,  and  before  the  news  had  got 
abroad  that  Mr.  Gladstone  was  on  his  legs  he  had  sat  down 
again.  We  who  heard  this  wonderful  speech  hugged  our- 
selves on  our  good  fortune,  they  who  missed  it  were  loud  in 
their  lamentation.  I  met  Mr.  Healy  a  little  while  after  in  the 
lobby. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  that  ?  "  he  demanded  en- 
thusiastically. 

"  The  best  debating  speech  I  have  ever  heard." 

"  Debating  speech  be  hanged !  "  he  replied;  "  it  was  the 
best  speech  Gladstone  ever  made.  By  heaven,  it  was  the 
best  speech  any  man  ever  made." 

Towards  the  end  of  my  time  in  the  House,  however,  a 
device  had  been  perfected  to  obviate  the  risk  of  missing  such 
a  treat.  A  wide  space  has  been  arranged  conspicuously  at 
the  end  of  the  smoke-room,  which  automatically  records  the 
name  of  each  speaker  as  he  rises  to  address  the  House.  I 
used  to  think  it  gave  an  additional  zest  to  the  flavour  of 
a  cigar  to  see  the  name  of  some  pretentious  bore  loom 
large  across  the  board,  and  to  think  of  the  fate  of  the 
Speaker  and  the  Serjeant-at-Arms  who  were  his  only 
audience. 

This  is  no  exaggeration.  Over  and  over  again,  glancing 
through  the  House  at  dinner-time,  I  saw  the  vast  dreary 
waste  inhabited  only  by  three  figures :  the  Speaker  in  his 
huge  carved  chair  on  the  dais,  the  Serjeant-at-Arms  in  his 
little  sentry-box  at  the  entrance,  and  the  dreary  bore  who 
poured  out  his  platitudes  on  those  two  helpless  victims  and 
to  a  desert  of  empty  green  benches. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  there  are  great  speeches 
every  night  or  every  week,  or  I  might  even  say  every  month. 
Apart  from  the  interest  of  the  place  and  the  sense  of  power 
which  its  membership  confers,  the  routine  of  parliamentary 
life  is  dull  enough  in  all  conscience.  The  largeness  and 
vitality  of  the  issues  involved,  however,  redeem  it  from 
tediousness.  For  most  men  it  has  an  absorbing  infatuation, 
which,  after  a  while,  makes  itself  felt  in  spite  of  the  mono- 


HUMOURS  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS    207 

tony.  The  late  Mr.  Biggar  lived  in  the  House  and  for  the 
House,  he  had  no  other  interest  or  amusement.  It  is  told 
that  on  one  occasion  when  his  friends  asked  him  why  he 
never  went  to  the  theatre,  he  replied  : 

"This  is  better  than  any  theatre,  mister.     It  is  all  real 
here." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

Question  time — Bowling  and  batting — The  alleged  poet  Homer — The 
tribulations  of  Private  Members — The  count  out — Labouchere's 
strong  language — The  all-night  sitting — "  Who  goes  home  ?  " — The 
devotion  of  Mrs.  Gladstone — A  touching  episode. 

r  I  ""HERE    are    all    sorts    of    unexpected   interludes    to 

A  mitigate  the  dulness  of  parliamentary  life,  and 
question  time  is  specially  fruitful  of  such  interludes. 
Questions,  as  a  rule,  were  not  designed  for  the  purpose  of 
eliciting  information.  The  object  was  generally  to  put  the 
Minister  questioned  in  the  wrong  box — to  convict  him  or  his 
department  of  misconduct ;  under  cover  of  a  note  of 
interrogation  to  contrive  an  attack  on  political  opponents. 

Question  time,  to  my  mind,  had  a  curious  resemblance  to 
a  game  of  cricket,  in  which  the  Opposition  bowled  and  the 
Ministers  batted.  There  were  fast  balls  and  underhand 
twisters.  Sometimes  the  Ministers  scored  heavily  off  the 
bowlers,  sometimes  their  wickets  were  taken.  The  Speaker 
was  umpire,  and  called  "  No  ball " — I  mean  "  Order ! 
order !  " — if  an  irregular  question  was  delivered.  We  used 
to  have  a  good  deal  of  quiet  fun  occasionally  at  this  game, 
when  a  single  question  developed  into  a  catechism,  before 
the  Speaker  could  effectively  interpose. 

On  one  occasion  Mr.  Johnston,  of  Ballykilbeg,  whose 
comic  bigotry  was  a  source  of  perennial  amusement,  objected 
in  the  form  of  a  question  to  the  use  in  primary  schools  of  the 
book  containing  Moore's  song,  "  Row,  brothers,  row,"  on  the 
ground  that  its  allusion  to  "  saints  of  our  own  green  isle  " 
inculcated  the  worship  of  saints. 

Before  the  Minister  could  reply  I  popped  up  with  a 
supplementary  question. 

"  Is  the  right  honourable  gentleman  aware,"  I  asked,  with 

208 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME       209 

a  face  as  grave  as  a  mustard-pot,  "  that  in  the  intermediate 
schools  and  universities  they  require  the  study  of  an  alleged 
poet  named  Homer,  who  encourages  the  worship  of  Jupiter, 
Juno,  Venus  and  other  objectionable  personages  ?  " 

"  Order,  order !  "  cried  the  Speaker  smilingly.  "  I  am 
afraid  that  question  savours  of  ridicule."  But  the  up- 
roarious laughter  of  the  House  told  me  that  I  had  scored. 

I  was  specially  delighted  with  the  face  of  Mr.  Gladstone, 
right  opposite  where  I  sat.  He  gave  a  little  start  of  dismay 
at  the  sacrilege  of  "  an  alleged  poet  named  Homer,"  but 
when  he  caught  the  point  of  the  question  his  whole  face 
wrinkled  with  laughter. 

Another  source  of  much  enlivenment  in  the  House  were 
the  vagaries  of  "  private  Members  "  who  desired  to  enshrine 
their  special  hobbies  in  the  Statute  Book.  The  "  Private 
Members'  Bills,"  as  they  are  called,  are  subject  to  the  most 
stringent  regulations.  The  objection  of  a  single  Member 
blocks  the  Bill  at  any  stage.  No  debate,  no  discussion  is 
allowed  ;  the  Speaker  passes  at  once  to  the  next  item  on  the 
programme. 

No  one  that  has  not  witnessed  it  can  realize  the  humour  of 
the  proceeding.  To  a  private  Member  his  Bill  is  as  precious 
as  an  only  child  to  a  doting  mother.  He  seems  to  fondle  it 
in  his  arms.  There  is  a  tremor  of  anxiety  in  his  voice  as 
he  strives  to  advance  it  a  stage  towards  the  triumph  of 
enactment.  Then  an  enemy,  often  close  beside  him,  gets 
up,  and  with  the  fatal  phrase,  "  I  object ! "  seals  its  fate  for 
the  night.  A  few  words  of  gentle  expostulation  are  at- 
tempted, generally  without  effect,  and  the  private  Member 
resumes  his  seat,  still  sadly  fondling  his  unhappy  off- 
spring. 

It  was  particularly  amusing  to  see  the  cynical  Mr. 
Labouchere  as  one  of  the  chief  actors  in  this  little  comedy. 

Mr.  Labouchere  had  a  private  Bill  called,  I  think,  the 
"  Chimney  Sweepers  Protection  Bill,"  for  which  he  evinced 
a  more  than  maternal  affection.  Night  after  night  it  was 
blocked  by  a  Mr.  Bolton,  for  whom  Mr.  Labouchere  enter- 
tained an  unmitigated  hatred  and  contempt.  One  night, 
however,  in  an  unhappy  moment  he  attempted  to  propitiate 


210     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

the  enemy.  He  made  a  humble  appeal  to  Mr.  Bolton  in  which 
he  described  the  innocence  and  beauty  of  the  Bill,  but  Mr. 
Bolton  retorted  with  the  sternly  repeated  "  I  object !  " 

Thereupon  Mr.  Labouchere's  temper  got  the  better  of 
him,  and  he  retorted  "  You  to  blazes !  "  in  a  voice  audible 
to  everyone  in  the  House,  except  (apparently)  the  Speaker, 
who  took  no  notice  of  the  incident  or  the  shriek  of  laughter 
that  followed. 

A  "  count  out  "  is  a  kind  of  practical  joke  much  esteemed 
by  legislative  humorists,  especially  as  the  result  is  an 
unexpected  holiday.  It  generally  comes  off  on  what  was 
called  "  private  Members'  nights,"  when  the  House  resolves 
itself  into  a  kind  of  debating  society,  and  private  Members 
who  were  lucky  in  the  ballot  get  an  opportunity  of  airing 
their  pet  fads.  On  these  occasions  the  House  usually 
emptied  itself  out  to  the  dregs.  Then  some  malevolent 
Member  would  call  the  attention  of  the  Speaker,  who  would 
never  notice  it  of  his  own  accord,  to  the  fact  that  there  was 
not  a  quorum  of  forty  present. 

A  few  minutes'  grace  was  allowed,  however,  "  to  make  a 
House."  The  contest  was  keen  between  those  who  wanted 
and  those  who  didn't  want  an  adjournment,  and  Members 
were  encouraged  or  obstructed  on  their  way  to  the  Chamber. 
It  was  especially  amusing  on  those  occasions  to  watch  the 
crowds  of  "  counters  out  "  skulking  just  outside  the  official 
range  of  the  Speaker's  eye.  On  some  occasions  Members 
with  a  pet  hobby  to  exercise  were  known  to  entertain  a 
dinner-party  of  forty  Members  on  the  premises,  who  were 
expected  in  return  for  food  and  wine  to  "keep  a  House" 
for  their  entertainer. 

The  kitchen  of  the  House  of  Commons  needs  its  subsidy 
of  a  few  thousand  a  year,  for  it  is  a  restaurant  that  can 
never  count  its  customers  beforehand.  A  sudden  "  scene  " 
may  unexpectedly  detain  a  few  hundred  Members  to  dinner, 
a  "  count  out  "  may  send  as  many  intending  diners  scurry- 
ing off  to  their  own  homes. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  that 
the  commissariat  department  occasionally  breaks  down.  I 
remember  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  the  few  all-night 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  211 

sittings  in  which  I  participated  we  were  compelled  to 
support  fainting  nature  on  hard-boiled  eggs  and  bread 
and  cheese. 

I  came  into  the  House  of  Commons  at  a  time  when, 
apart  from  the  large  issues  involved,  it  was  especially  dull 
and  trying  for  an  Irish  Member.  The  Tories  had  all  the  fun  : 
they  were  playing  the  lively  and  exciting  game  of  obstruc- 
tion. Our  daily  duty  was  to  sit  silent  and  vote.  Every 
word  spoken  was  a  trespass  on  the  time  of  the  House,  which 
the  Government  regard,  and  rightly  regard,  as  their  most 
valuable  asset.  I  used  to  look  back  with  envy  and  regret 
on  the  good  old  days  of  lively  Irish  obstruction,  when  the 
enemy  were  in  power  and  when  the  longer  an  Irish  Member 
spoke,  and  the  oftener,  the  better  he  deserved  of  his  party. 

Even  our  all-night  sittings  were  poor  and  tame  in  com- 
parison with  the  strenuous  old  days,  when  the  floor  of  the 
library  was  strewn  with  sleeping  Members,  like  soldiers  in  an 
encampment  ready  at  the  battle-call  to  spring  up  and  rush 
into  the  fray. 

We  occasionally  sat  up  all  night  discussing  interminable 
trivialities,  dreary  as  "  a  twice-told  tale,  vexing  the  dull  ear 
of  a  drowsy  man,"  and  welcomed  with  enthusiasm  the  shout 
of  a  score  of  policemen  "  Who  goes  home  ?  "  which  announces 
the  fall  of  the  curtain  on  the  night's  performance.  The 
shout  itself  is  reminiscent  of  the  days  when  the  footpads 
that  frequented  the  streets  of  London  made  going  home  a 
service  of  danger,  and  Members  herded  together  for  mutual 
protection.  In  modern  days,  however,  the  shout  is  but  a 
warning  to  the  vast  array  of  vehicles,  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes,  with  which  Palace  Yard  is  thronged,  to  carry  off 
the  weary  legislators  to  bed. 

The  scene,  as  I  crept  wearily  out  from  the  dim  light  and 
stuffy  air  of  the  House  into  the  pure  freshness  of  the  dawn, 
was  a  new  revelation  of  the  truth  and  beauty  of  Words- 
worth's exquisite  sonnet : — 

This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  :  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres  and  temples  lie 
Open  to  the  fields  and  to  the  sky. 


212     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will. 
Dear  God,  the  very  houses  seem  asleep, 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still. 

The  wide  space  of  Palace  Yard  at  such  times  was  a  perfect 
wilderness  of  prancing  horses,  whirling  vehicles  and  flashing 
lights. 

Necessity  is  the  mother  of  innovation.  I  could  not  afford 
even  the  cheapest  vehicle  to  carry  me  to  my  distant  lodgings, 
so  I  was  the  first  to  introduce  the  humble  bicycle  into  this 
aristocratic  society.  My  example  was  followed  by  many 
others.  Even  Mr.  Balfour  for  a  time,  before  the  advent  of 
the  motor,  condescended  to  the  bicycle.  But  at  first 
mine  was  the  solitary  bike  amongst  the  wilderness  of 
vehicles,  and  I  remember  well  the  pleasure  with  which  I 
jumped  upon  my  lowly  steed,  gave  the  whole  glittering 
procession  a  lead  up  the  smooth  wooden  pavement  of 
Whitehall,  and  out-distancing  them  all  stole  swiftly  and 
silently  through  the  silent  streets  to  my  lodgings  in  the 
suburbs. 

The  House  of  Commons,  if  it  is  the  best  club,  is  assuredly 
the  most  ungallant  assembly  in  the  world.  Nor  have  its 
temper  and  character  been  improved  by  recent  feminine 
invasions.  The  gallery  reserved  for  ladies  is,  as  everyone 
knows,  narrow,  dark,  and  fenced  with  a  close  brass  grating 
that  suggests  the  harem  of  an  Eastern  potentate. 

I  have  been  to  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  of  course,  many  times, 
and  can  vouch  for  it  that  it  is  only  possible  to  see  through 
the  narrow  opening  of  the  grating  angular  sections  of  the 
faces  of  the  speakers  in  the  House  below.  The  reason  of  this 
caging  up  of  the  ladies  has  never  been  made  quite  clear,  but 
the  generally  accepted  explanation  is  that  the  full  and 
unrestricted  glare  of  feminine  charms  in  the  gallery  behind 
the  Speaker's  chair,  to  which  all  eyes  are  necessarily  turned, 
would  dazzle  impressionable  Members  and  distract  them 
from  the  business  in  hand. 

Instigated,  doubtless,  by  feminine  complaint,  many 
objections  have  been  taken  by  the  Members  of  the 
House  to  the  retention  of  the  grating,  but  the  conserva- 
tive vis  inertia  which  in  the  House  of  Commons  opposes 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  213 

itself  to  all  change,  reasonable  or  unreasonable,  has  pre- 
vailed. 

I  remember  on  one  occasion,  instigated  by  a  charming 
young  lady,  I  questioned  Mr.  Herbert  Gladstone,  then 
President  of  the  Board  of  Public  Works,  on  the  subject 
across  the  floor  of  the  House.  With  deprecating  eye  cast 
sideways  towards  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  Mr.  Gladstone  regretted 
his  inability  to  have  the  grating  removed.  When  I  met  him 
afterwards  in  the  smoking-room  he  protested  against  the 
invidious  position  in  which  my  question  had  placed  him, 
and  volunteered  as  a  compromise  to  provide  me  with  a 
pickaxe  and  crowbar  and  every  facility  for  removing  it 
myself. 

Before  I  pass  from  the  subject  of  the  grating,  there  is  one 
little  curious  incident  that  I  desire  to  recall.  Standing  at 
the  door  of  the  House  one  day,  I  noticed  that  a  small  patch 
of  the  lattice-work  of  dull  brass  shone  like  burnished  gold. 
Some  time  afterwards  I  asked  an  attendant  if  he  could 
explain  the  reason. 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  is  the  place  where  Mrs.  Gladstone  sits 
to  watch  the  Grand  Old  Man  whenever  he  has  a  big  speech 
to  make.  She  rests  one  hand  on  the  grating  and  the  friction, 
as  you  see,  has  worn  it  bright." 

Often  afterwards,  from  the  floor  of  the  House,  when  the 
old  man  was  speaking,  I  watched  the  eager  face  of  his  wife 
in  her  accustomed  place  close  to  the  grille  with  one  hand 
resting  lightly  on  the  grating. 

There  seemed  to  me  something  wonderfully  touching  in 
love  that  survives  through  more  than  half  a  century  : — 

That  feeling  that  after  long  years  have  gone  by 
Remains  like  a  portrait  we've  sat  for  in  youth ; 
What  e'en  though  the  flush  of  the  colours  may  fly, 
The  features  still  live  in  their  first  smiling  youth. 

Indeed,  the  one  fault  I  have  to  find  with  Viscount  Morley's 
Life  of  Gladstone,  is  that  Mrs.  Gladstone  fills  so  small  a  place 
in  the  work,  when  in  the  real  life  she  filled  so  large.  Old 
Boswell  would  have  been  more  human  and  more  gallant. 

Uncomfortable  as  is  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  the  competition 
for  seats,  especially  on  a  gala  night,  is  wonderfully  keen 


214     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

Each  Member  is  (or  was,  before  the  coming  of  the  suffragettes) 
permitted  to  put  a  little  folded  docket  containing  his  name 
into  a  ballot-box,  entitling  him  to  two  seats  in  the  Ladies' 
Gallery.  The  papers  are  drawn  by  the  Serjeant-at-Arms, 
and  places  are  allotted  in  order  of  precedence  to  the  success- 
ful balloters. 

I  remember  a  schoolboy  trick  of  ours  was  to  fold  up  the 
ballot  papers  with  as  many  angles  and  corners  as  possible 
in  hopes  that  it  might  arrest  the  finger-tips  of  the  impartial 
Serj  eant-at-Arms. 

The  popularity  of  the  Ladies'  Gallery  was  largely  due  to  the 
fact  that  a  seat  there  almost  invariably  involved  in  the 
summer-time  a  tea  on  the  Terrace — one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful and  popular  of  the  social  functions  of  London. 

The  Terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons  is,  as  everybody, 
or  nearly  everybody,  knows,  a  vast  platform  stretching  along 
the  Thames,  where  pleasure-boats  and  barges  go  gliding 
slowly  by. 

The  invasion  of  the  Terrace  by  ladies  is  a  modern  develop- 
ment, to  which  some  crusty  old  bachelors  of  the  House  at 
first  strongly  objected.  To  meet  their  objection  a  small, 
railed-off  portion  was  reserved  for  "  gentlemen  only  "  ;  but 
the  ridicule  they  encountered  when  they  sought  the  seclusion 
of  this  pen  soon  led  to  its  removal,  and  the  whole  Terrace 
became  the  happy  hunting-ground  of  the  ladies. 

In  the  season  it  was  crowded  with  the  rank  and  fashion 
of  London,  the  whole  space  dotted  over  with  tables  on  which 
tea,  coffee  and  strawberries  were  liberally  provided. 
Occasionally,  too,  ladies  dined  with  Members  in  specially 
reserved  rooms,  but  the  rooms  so  reserved  were  amongst 
the  smallest  and  dingiest  of  the  building  and  were  bespoken  a 
week  in  advance. 

Still,  a  dinner  in  the  House  of  Commons  was,  in  spite  of 
all  these  difficulties  and  discomforts,  or  perhaps  because  of 
them,  a  coveted  dissipation. 

Among  many  disabilities  the  ladies  had,  however,  one 
exclusive  privilege.  Beside  the  inner  door  of  the  Legislative 
Chamber  there  is  a  nook  of  about  two  feet  high  which  looks 
in  through  a  glass  window  upon  the  Members.  Ladies, 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME      215 

accompanied  by  a  Member,  were  privileged  to  stand  there 
for  a  couple  of  minutes  at  a  time  and  have  a  clear  view  of 
the  Chamber  and  its  occupants,  which  was  impossible  from 
the  Ladies'  Gallery.  This  was  a  privilege  to  which  no  male 
outsider  was  allowed. 

I  believe  the  freaks  of  the  suffragettes  have  caused  it  to 
be  wholly  abolished.  After  an  ultra-enthusiast  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  burst  through  the  swinging 
doors  and  race  up  the  floor  of  the  House  shouting,  "  Votes 
for  Women  !  "  the  Speaker  decided  he  would  take  no  risks 
for  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  HOUSE 

A  maiden  speech — Called  to  order — Chamberlain  and  the  Lords — Queen 
Anne  and  Queen  Victoria — A  misconception — An  unparalleled  scene — 
Herod  and  Judas — The  fight  on  the  floor — A  general  scrimmage — 
Members  come  to  fisticuffs — The  beginning  of  the  end. 

VERY  terrifying  is  the  atmosphere  of  the  Legislative 
Chamber  to  a  new  Member.  It  inspires  a  strange 
feeling  of  awe  from  which  even  the  most  audacious  is  not 
exempt.  I  have  heard  that  Mr.  Healy,  when  little  more 
than  a  boy,  on  his  very  first  night  in  the  House,  attacked 
Lord  Hartington  in  a  speech  of  superb  vituperation.  But 
he  was  the  single  splendid  exception.  The  antiquity  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  the  splendour  of  its  traditions,  the 
power  of  which  it  is  the  repository,  completely  overawes  the 
novice.  He  enters  with  fear  and  trembling,  he  shrinks  from 
notice,  he  trembles  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  This  I 
take  it  is  the  cause  why  so  many  great  orators  break  down 
in  their  maiden  speeches.  For  the  first  few  weeks  a  little 
nervous  shiver  ran  down  my  back  as  I  stole  to  my  seat,  and 
the  mere  thought  of  speaking  took  my  breath  away. 

My  own  voice  had  a  strange  hollow  sound  when  I  asked 
my  first  question  in  the  historic  Chamber.  But  I  resolved 
to  speak,  and  did  early  in  the  session,  though  it  must  be 
confessed  that  my  maiden  speech  was  a  most  embarrassing 
and  disappointing  performance.  I  carefully  got  my  thoughts 
together,  but  having  a  speech  ready  and  being  let  fire  it  off 
are  two  different  things  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Half  a 
dozen  times  one  evening  I  popped  up,  hat  in  hand,  to  catch 
the  Speaker's  eye,  and  each  time,  in  cricket  parlance,  I 
muffed  the  catch.  I  had  an  uneasy  feeling  of  the  comicality 
of  the  performance,  and  had  almost  determined  to  give  up 
when  my  chance  came  at  last.  The  Speaker  sang  out  my 

216 


THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  HOUSE  217 

name  in  resonant  tones.  My  heart  gave  a  great  throb  and 
then  ceased  beating  as  I  rose  to  address  the  House. 

"  Mr.  Speaker,"  I  began  hi  the  orthodox  form,  and  was 
astounded  by  a  sudden  interruption. 

"  Order,  order,"  cried  the  Speaker,  and  skipping  out  of 
his  chair  departed  for  his  tea.  Then  the  House  emptied 
rapidly,  and  I  was  left  waiting  alone  in  a  very  fever  of 
nervousness  for  the  Speaker's  return.  The  clock  itself 
seemed  to  have  taken  an  interval  for  refreshment,  for  the 
next  twenty  minutes,  to  my  impatient  imagination,  slowly 
stretched  out  to  two  hours.  At  last  the  Speaker  returned, 
but  only  the  Speaker,  misguided  Members  preferred  their 
dinners  to  my  oratory,  so  my  maiden  speech  was  delivered 
to  the  Chair,  the  Serjeant-at-Arms  and  a  wilderness  of 
empty  green  benches  ;  my  jokes  fell  flat  on  irresponsive 
vacancy,  and  my  careful  peroration  turned  to  pure 
burlesque. 

As  a  novice  I  naturally  flew  at  high  game.  Mr.  Chamber- 
lain was  then  the  pet  aversion  of  the  whole  Irish  party,  and 
against  Mr.  Chamberlain  my  maiden  speech  was  directed. 
I  made  fun  of  his  declaration  just  before  the  General 
Election  that  Home  Rule  was  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne.  I 
was  surprised,  I  said,  that  the  right  honourable  gentleman 
thought  it  worth  his  while  to  take  part  in  the  debate.  If 
Home  Rule  was  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne,  there  was  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  its  dissection.  But  I  rather  thought  that 
he  and  other  Unionists  would  find,  in  the  words  of  the 
immortal  Mantalini,  that  Home  Rule  was  "  a  demmed 
uncomfortable  corpse."  If  Queen  Anne  was  as  much  alive 
as  Home  Rule  was,  it  would  be  a  blue  look-out  for  her 
Gracious  Majesty  Queen  Victoria.  I  quoted  Goldsmith  at 
portentous  length  to  illustrate  his  relations  with  Mr. 
Gladstone  : — 

The  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends, 

But  then  a  pique  began. 
The  dog  to  gain  some  private  ends 

Went  mad  and  bit  the  man. 
But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

To  show  the  rogues  they  lied. 
The  man  recovered  from  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


218     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Finally  I  had  the  almost  unique,  if  unenviable,  experience 
of  being  called  to  order  by  the  Speaker  in  my  maiden 
speech.  I  repeated  Mr.  Chamberlain's  description  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  in  what  he  afterwards  called  "  his  Radical 
days." 

"  I  am  rather  thankful  than  otherwise  to  gentlemen  who 
will  take  the  trouble  of  wearing  robes  and  coronets  and 
keeping  up  a  certain  state  of  splendour  which  is  pleasing  to 
look  on.  They  are  ancient  monuments,  and  I  for  one  would 
be  very  sorry  to  deface  them.  But  I  do  not  admit  that  we 
can  build  on  those  interesting  ruins  the  foundation  of  our 
government.  I  cannot  allow  these  venerable  antiquities " 

Here  the  Speaker  pulled  me  up  abruptly,  but  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  explaining  that  the  words  objected  to  were 
Mr.  Chamberlain's,  not  mine,  and  I  was  quite  content  when 
he  retorted  that  they  were  not  words  that  could  be  used  in 
the  House  of  Commons. 

There  was  a  curious  sequel  to  my  allusion  to  Queen  Anne 
and  Queen  Victoria.  Next  night  a  card  was  sent  to  me, 
and  in  the  Lobby  I  was  greeted  by  a  handsome  and  superbly 
groomed  young  man,  who  explained  that  he  was  the  Hon. 
Secretary  of  the  "  White  Rose  League,"  and  claimed  me 
as  an  adherent  of  the  Stuart  queen. 

Once  I  had  got  my  maiden  speech  off  my  chest  my  nervous- 
ness rapidly  vanished.  Familiarity  with  the  House  of 
Commons  if  it  did  not  breed  contempt,  at  least  dissipated 
terror.  I  learned  to  loll  at  my  ease  on  the  sacred  green 
benches,  I  no  longer  trembled  at  the  sound  of  my  own  voice, 
and  found  it  an  easy  matter  to  chip  into  a  debate  whenever 
I  felt  so  inclined. 

It  was  my  good  (or  bad)  fortune  to  be  present  at  the 
wildest  scene,  and  the  fiercest,  ever  witnessed  in  the 
House  of  Commons  since  the  day  when  Cromwell  with  his 
Ironsides  broke  into  the  Legislative  Chamber,  scoffed  at 
Sir  Harry  Vane  and  ordered  the  soldiers  to  "  remove  that 
bauble  " — meaning  thereby  the  venerated  mace. 

It  was  the  night  when  Mr.  Gladstone  had  determined  to 
cut  his  way  through  a  mass  of  dilatory  amendments  to  the 
third  reading  of  his  Home  Rule  Bill,  For  many  months 


THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  HOUSE     219 

the  measure  had  been  openly  and  systematically  obstructed 
by  the  Opposition  with  an  infinite  number  of  devices. 
Finally  Mr.  Gladstone  preferred  his  indictment  against 
obstruction,  and  it  was  sentenced  to  the  guillotine.  When 
the  fateful  night  of  the  execution  arrived  the  air  of  the  place 
seemed  electric  with  the  passions  which  had  been  aroused. 
Once  again  the  House  was  crammed  to  its  utmost  capacity, 
seats  were  engaged  twelve  hours  in  advance,  and  for  the 
unwise  legislators  who  had  not  taken  their  precautions 
beforehand,  only  standing  room  was  available ;  benches, 
floors  and  galleries  were  all  densely  crowded. 

The  debate  was  animated  from  the  first,  but  waxed  in 
passion  and  fervour  as  it  proceeded.  Cheers  and  counter 
cheers  roared  across  from  the  opposing  benches  like  broad- 
sides in  a  naval  battle  ;  hotter  and  hotter  grew  the  temper 
of  the  House,  while  the  hands  of  the  clock  crept  slowly 
round  to  the  fatal  hour  of  twelve  when  the  guillotine  must 
fall. 

In  the  very  height  of  this  seething  excitement  Mr.  Chamber- 
lain— slim,  sleek  and  neatly  groomed,  with  a  star  of  white 
orchid  in  his  buttonhole — rose  to  conclude  the  debate.  His 
voice  was  smoothly  modulated,  his  words  carefully  chosen, 
he  spoke  with  precise  deliberation,  but  there  was  a  sting 
in  every  pointed  sentence  that  pricked  the  fiery  passion  of 
the  House  like  a  spur  to  a  high-mettled  and  over-excited 
steed.  At  last  the  climax  came.  With  mockery  and  malice 
in  his  soft  tones,  he  insinuated  insulting  comparisons 
between  Mr.  Gladstone  and  Herod,  quoting  the  appalling 
description  in  the  Scriptures  of  the  downfall  of  the  Jewish 
king. 

At  the  first  uttering  of  the  word  "  Herod,"  the  storm  of 
passion  broke  loose  among  the  followers  of  Mr.  Gladstone, 
and  the  answering  cry  of  "  Judas  !  Judas  !  "  came  back 
from  a  score  of  voices  hoarse  with  rage,  the  dominating 
tones  of  Mr.  T.  P.  O'Conner  heard  plainly  above  the 
tumult.  There  followed  a  scene  without  parallel  in  the 
British  House  of  Commons. 

Mr.  Chamberlain  had  plainly  anticipated  the  storm. 
He  reserved  the  attack  on  Mr.  Gladstone  to  the  peroration 


220     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

of  his  speech,  and  just  as  the  hour  hand  of  the  clock  touched 
the  allotted  hour  he  dropped  into  his  seat,  smiling  sardonically 
at  the  tumult  he  had  evoked. 

The  Chairman  of  the  House  rose  to  put  the  question,  in 
compliance  with  the  motion  already  passed,  but  his  feeble 
voice  was  drowned  in  the  all-pervading  din.  On  the  Tory 
benches  was  seen  the  figure  of  Mr.  Vicary  Gibbs,  bareheaded, 
waving  both  arms  wildly  and  shouting  in  dumb  show  a 
frantic  appeal  to  the  Chair,  but  no  word  was  heard.  Mr. 
Vicary  Gibbs  dropped  into  his  seat,  clapped  his  hat  on  his 
head,  as  the  quaint  rule  to  which  I  have  already  alluded  pre- 
scribes, and  continued  to  yell  an  inaudible  protest  through 
the  tumult.  After  the  prescribed  pause,  the  question  was  put 
again,  as  before,  in  dumb  show  and  amid  the  continuing 
storm,  and  the  House  was  directed  to  clear  for  a  division. 

At  this  the  Tory  fury  broke  out  hi  open  rebellion  to  the 
authority  of  the  Chair.  The  members  of  the  Opposition 
clung  to  their  seats  and  yelled  in  frantic  defiance.  So  far 
the  violence  was  of  voices  only,  but  not  for  long.  We  who 
had  passed  out  into  the  division  lobbies  in  obedience  to  the 
direction  of  the  Chair  were  recalled  by  the  tumult  in  the 
Chamber,  and  trooped  back  to  discover  the  cause.  Close 
beside  me  at  the  time  was  a  Liberal  Home  Rule  Member, 
Mr.  Logan,  who  like  myself  was  surprised  on  his  return  to 
the  House  by  the  strange  spectacle  of  the  Tories  still  glued 
to  their  seats  and  yelling  furiously.  While  I  took  my  place 
among  my  colleagues,  to  wait  results,  Mr.  Logan's  curiosity 
drew  him  towards  the  centre  of  the  excitement. 

On  the  front  Opposition  benches,  however,  he  was  met 
by  a  furious  cry  of  "  Order  !  order  1  "  for  it  is  a  technical 
disorder  for  any  Member  not  addressing  the  Chair  to  keep 
his  feet  in  the  House  of  Commons  except  behind  the  Bar. 

"  I  will  put  myself  in  order,"  he  answered  obligingly,  and 
dropped  down  into  the  vacant  seat  of  the  Leader  of  the 
Opposition. 

That  was  the  signal  for  violence.  The  Tories  flung  them- 
selves upon  him  in  front  and  rear,  and  tried  to  hustle  him 
from  his  place.  Mr.  Fisher  (then  private  secretary  to  Mr. 
Balfour)  was  the  most  violent  in  the  attack.  The  Irish 


THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  HOUSE  221 

Members  rose  to  a  man  at  the  sight  of  a  scrimmage  and 
moved  in  the  direction,  impelled  so  far  rather  by  curiosity 
than  by  anger,  but  the  pressure  in  the  rear  pushed  those  in 
front  across  the  gangway  into  the  Tory  territory.  The 
Tories  leaped  up  to  repel  the  boarders.  Colonel  Saunderson, 
with  an  Irishman's  readiness  for  a  fight,  led  the  assault, 
and  striking  out  fiercely  with  clenched  fist  met  the  un- 
offending Mr.  Austin  in  the  face. 

The  next  moment  Mr.  Crean  struck  back  as  fiercely ; 
the  blow  caught  Colonel  Saunderson  under  the  jaw  with  a 
dull  thud  that  resounded  through  the  House  and  sent  him 
sprawling  among  the  benches.  All  at  once  the  passion  that 
lies  in  every  man's  heart — the  wild,  mad,  animal  passion  of 
fight,  which  civilization  may  stifle  but  cannot  extinguish — 
flared  up  in  a  fierce  blaze.  Staid  legislators  yelled  and  struck 
and  fought  like  corner  boys. 

From  the  galleries  the  spectators,  leaning  forward,  hissed 
furiously  at  the  degrading  scene. 

The  thing  was  so  sudden  that  I  found  myself  in  the  very 
heart  and  heat  of  this  tumult  before  I  could  clearly  realize 
what  it  all  meant.  But  across  the  floor  of  the  House, 
beyond  the  fierce  mass  of  struggling  men,  I  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  pale,  pathetic  face  of  Mr.  Gladstone.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  he  seemed  old  to  me — old  even  beyond  his  age — and 
haggard  with  humiliation,  for  Mr.  Gladstone  loved  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  its  honour  was  dear  to  him  as  his 
own. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  assembly  must  be 
swept  into  the  heart  of  that  growing  tumult.  Strangely 
enough,  it  was  on  the  Irish  benches  the  peacemakers  were 
found.  I  saw  several  men,  whose  passion  made  them  ir- 
responsible, held  forcibly  down  by  more  peaceable  colleagues. 
Two  Irish  Members  stretched  strong  arms  across  the  gangway 
between  the  Irish  and  Orange  benches,  and  held  the  he- 
reditary foes  apart;  but  still  the  fight  raged,  though  less 
fiercely,  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  when  all  at  once  the 
rumbling  tumult  ceased  in  deadest  silence  and  something 
like  awe  fell  upon  the  assembly.  I  turned  round,  surprised 
and  startled,  to  find  the  cause  of  this  sudden  peace,  and 


222     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

found  it.  The  feeble  Chairman  of  Committees  had  dis- 
appeared, and  the  stern  Speaker  of  the  House  had  come  back 
into  the  Chair.  Resolute  and  masterful  his  clear  voice  rang 
through  the  tumult,  enforcing  obedience.  Explanations 
were  made  and  apologies  were  offered.  In  ten  minutes  all 
traces  of  the  unparalleled  storm,  which  had  for  a  brief  space 
swept  away  its  traditions,  disappeared,  and  the  House  cleared 
for  a  division. 

I  remember  well  a  little  incident  which  occurred  as  I 
moved  out  with  the  rest.  Excited  and  forgetful,  by  reason 
of  the  scene  which  I  had  witnessed,  I  unconsciously  set  my 
hat  on  my  head  before  I  reached  the  bar.  Instantly  a  cry 
of  "  Order  !  order  !  "  was  raised  by  Members  round  me,  and 
an  attendant  at  my  elbow  whispered,  "  Remove  your  hat, 
sir,  remove  your  hat,"  in  a  tone  of  horror  as  if  a  sacrilege 
had  been  committed  in  a  sacred  place.  Then  I  knew  for 
certain  that  ceremonial  and  convention  had  reasserted 
themselves,  and  the  House  of  Commons  was  itself  again. 

After  months  of  wearisome  obstruction  the  great  night 
came  at  last  when  the  third  reading  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  Home 
Rule  Bill  was  carried  in  the  Imperial  House  of  Commons. 

All  day  there  was  a  curious  strain  and  restlessness  that 
is  ever  the  herald  of  a  great  event.  An  undercurrent  of 
impatience  ran  through  the  applause  with  which  the  stirring 
speeches  were  heard.  On  the  closing  night  of  the  great 
debate  the  highest  flight  of  eloquence  was  reached,  but  even 
the  highest  eloquence  could  not  hold  the  attention  of  the 
Members,  who  crowded  the  House  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
eager  to  come  to  close  quarters  in  the  division  lobby. 

At  last  the  final  struggle  was  over.  The  tellers,  four 
abreast,  pushed  their  way  through  the  throng  up  the  floor 
of  the  House  of  Commons  and  stood  ranged  in  front  of  the 
Speaker's  chair.  It  was  a  moment  of  the  profoundest 
silence,  the  most  intense  excitement ;  every  man  in  the  great 
assembly  held  his  breath  to  listen  ;  all  felt  that  a  turning- 
point  in  the  history  of  the  two  nations  had  been  reached, 
and  awaited  with  awe-inspired  silence  the  verdict  of  the 
Imperial  Parliament  in  favour  of  Ireland's  freedom  and 
nationality. 


THE  TERRORS  OF  THE  HOUSE  223 

The  instant  the  figures  were  announced  the  pent-up 
excitement  broke  loose.  The  hopes  and  longings  of  years 
were  in  the  cheers  that  pealed  again  and  again  from  the 
Irish  benches,  whilst  the  Unionists  held  their  seats  silent 
and  dismayed. 

Dizzy  with  delight  and  triumph  I  passed  from  the  heat  of 
the  House  into  the  cool  night  air.  The  excitement  within 
had  overflowed  into  the  streets,  a  vast  wild  throng  had 
gathered  in  Palace  Yard  waiting  the  verdict,  and  when  the 
verdict  came  it  evoked  a  universal  enthusiasm.  Englishmen 
and  Irishmen  grasped  hands  in  fellowship  and  congratulation 
at  the  ending  of  the  long  feud  of  centuries.  All  at  once  some- 
one in  the  crowd  struck  up  "  The  Wearing  of  the  Green," 
and  it  swelled  up  to  the  night  skies  in  a  mighty  chorus  in 
which  the  Cockney  accent  and  the  brogue  were  strangely 
blended.  As  I  whirled  homeward  on  my  bicycle  past 
Trafalgar  Square  I  still  heard  the  distant  roar  booming 
through  the  night  air,  and  I  felt  that  the  solemn  promise  of 
that  great  night  could  never  be  effaced. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FRONT  BENCHERS 

"The  Grand  Old  Man" — Gladstone  unrivalled — Universal  genius — "All 
proud  of  him  " — "  Before  he  dies  " — His  sprint  in  the  Lobby — Never 
an  "  orthodox  Tory  " — "  The  Slogger  " — Lawyers  and  Members — 
Morley  and  Sir  Henry  James — Asqnith — Lloyd  George. 

MY  brief  sojourn  in  the  House  of  Commons  has  left  me 
vivid  recollections  of  many  remarkable  men.  Amid 
those  pictures  Gladstone  stands  alone.  It  is  hopeless  to  try 
to  explain  the  fascination  of  the  man.  He  towered  over 
all  the  rest  by  head  and  shoulders ;  he  was  at  once  the 
youngest  and  the  oldest  member  of  Parliament :  the  oldest 
according  to  the  deceptive  testimony  of  the  calendar,  the 
youngest  in  an  almost  boyish  eagerness  and  vivacity.  You 
never  knew  the  moment  when  he  would  start  a  brilliant 
surprise  on  the  House.  Sometimes  he  brightened  the  dull 
tedium  of  the  dinner-hour  with  a  brilliant  flash  of  oratory 
that  brought  Members  hurrying  in  from  their  half-finished 
meal ;  sometimes  on  an  outside  subject,  raised  on  what  I  may 
call  the  "  off  nights  "  devoted  to  private  Members,  he  appeared, 
radiant,  with  a  red  rose  in  his  button-hole,  to  contribute  a 
lively  little  speech  to  the  enlivenment  of  a  dry,  academic 
debate. 

He  lent  to  the  place  the  light  and  animation  of  genius, 
he  provided  the  Members  with  a  succession  of  brilliant 
surprises.  In  every  form  of  parliamentary  service  he  was 
not  merely  great,  but  the  greatest.  Of  his  eloquence  there 
is  no  need  to  speak.  In  a  set  speech  he  was  absolutely 
overpowering,  obstacles  and  opposition  melted  away  before 
that  full  torrent  of  close  reasoning  and  irresistible  appeal. 
But  in  answering  a  question  across  the  floor  of  the  House, 
in  a  quick  interruption,  in  untying  a  parliamentary  knot, 
in  chaffing  a  prosy  speaker,  in  recovering  a  reverse  in  debate, 

224 


FRONT  BENCHERS  225 

and  turning  a  defeat  into  victory,  the  adroitness  of  the  old 
parliamentary  hand  was  supreme. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  Gladstone  had  no  sense  of 
humour ;  my  experience  gives  the  lie  to  that  calumny.  I 
never  heard  anything  more  delicately  humorous  than  his 
playful  badinage  of  Mr.  Jesse  Collings,  or  more  caustically 
humorous  than  his  trenchant  attacks  on  Mr.  Chamberlain. 

His  adroitness  in  debate  was  almost  miraculous.  Once  in 
his  absence  the  ministerial  benches  got  into  a  muddle  over 
an  amendment  proposed  by  the  Opposition.  The  amend- 
ment was  one  that  should  have  been  accepted  at  the  first, 
but  the  Government,  having  once  committed  themselves  to 
refusal,  doggedly  persisted  in  opposing  it. 

Mr.  Sexton,  in  a  brief  speech,  tried  to  help  them  out  of  the 
slough  into  which  they  had  plunged,  but  they  would  not  be 
helped,  and  they  were  still  floundering  when  Mr.  Gladstone 
came  suddenly  on  the  scene  and  plumped  down  in  his  usual 
place  between  Mr.  Morley  and  Sir  William  Harcourt.  From 
my  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  House  I  saw  him  rapidly 
collect,  apparently  from  both  men  at  the  same  time,  a  brief 
summary  of  what  had  gone  on  in  his  absence. 

It  took  him  no  more  than  three  minutes  to  grasp  the 
situation,  and  when  Mr.  Balfour  sat  down  after  an  extremely 
effective  speech,  in  which  he  had  bantered  the  Ministers  to 
his  heart's  content,  Mr.  Gladstone  rose  to  reply. 

He  began  with  a  brilliant  attack  on  the  Opposition,  ridi- 
culing the  speakers  and  speeches  on  the  other  side.  He 
declared  that  Mr.  Balfour  had  "  envenomed  the  debate." 
Then  under  cover  of  this  attack  he  proceeded  to  change  the 
position  of  the  Government.  He  paid  a  graceful  compliment 
to  Mr.  Sexton. 

"  I  myself,"  he  said,  "  have  been  much  influenced  in 
my  judgment  by  the  speech  of  the  honourable  Member 
for  Kerry."  Thereupon  the  Opposition  shouted  their 
derision. 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Gladstone  indignantly,  "  will 
you  not  allow  me  to  be  influenced  by  an  Irish  Member,  even 
when  he  influences  me  in  favour  of  your  own  conten- 
tion ?  You  yourselves,  I  notice,  are  sometimes  influenced 


226     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

by  the  right  honourable  Member  for  West  Birmingham. 
Not,  I  would  assume,  from  any  inveterate  love  of  the 
individual." 

The  shot  went  home,  for  at  that  time  Mr.  Chamberlain 
was  not  popular  on  the  Tory  benches,  and  amidst  the 
laughter  that  followed  Mr.  Gladstone  carried  the  Government 
safe  out  of  their  untenable  position,  with  drums  beating 
and  banners  flying,  and  with  such  brilliant  assumption  of 
triumph  that  the  retreat  seemed  a  victory,  and  Members 
of  both  sides  of  the  House  applauded  the  tactics  of  the 
veteran. 

"  Tell  the  Grand  Old  Man,"  I  heard  Mr.  Balfour  say 
when  he  met  Mr.  Morley  behind  the  Speaker's  chair  after 
the  division,  "  tell  him  from  me  that  we  are  all  proud  of 
him." 

An  interruption  is  often  most  effective  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  though  a  quick-witted  speaker  will  occasionally 
counter  the  interruption  with  a  deadly  retort.  The  most 
effective  thing  of  the  kind  that  I  remember  during  my 
experience  was  Mr.  Gladstone's  interruption  of  Mr.  Chamber- 
lain. 

It  is  the  practice  of  the  House  of  Commons  that  the 
speaker  shall  allude  to  the  Members  who  agree  with  him  as 
his  "  honourable,  or  right  honourable,  friends,"  and  the 
Members  who  differ  from  him  as  the  "  honourable,  or  right 
honourable,  gentlemen." 

At  the  time  Mr.  Chamberlain  was  in  a  somewhat  difficult 
position  ;  he  had  practically  left  the  Liberal  party,  but  he 
had  not  joined  the  Tories.  The  Liberals  were  his  "  right 
honourable  friends,"  because  he  was  still  nominally  of  their 
party ;  the  Tories  were  his  "  right  honourable  friends," 
because  he  was  acting  and  speaking  with  them.  The  result 
was  confusing.  His  speech,  whether  in  reply  or  approval, 
was  interlarded  with  allusions  to  "  his  right  honourable 
friends  "  on  both  sides  of  the  House.  "  I  approve  of  my 
honourable  friend's  views,"  he  would  say  in  one  sentence, 
and  "  I  repudiate  my  right  honourable  friend's  views,"  he 
would  say  in  the  next. 

Mr.  Gladstone  saw  his  opportunity.     Suddenly  jumping 


FRONT  BENCHERS  227 

to  his  feet  with  an  air  of  eager  but  innocent  curiosity,  he 
exclaimed  : 

"  Which  of  his  right  honourable  friends  does  he  allude  to  ? 
The  right  honourable  gentleman  has  so  many." 

A  roar  of  applause  completely  disorganized  Mr.  Chamber- 
lain. The  sting  of  the  interruption  lay  in  the  fact  that  he 
had  at  the  time  hardly  a  friend  on  either  side  of  the  House. 

Mr.  Gladstone's  venerable  youth  was  a  subject  of  constant 
comment  in  the  tea-rooms,  smoking-room  and  lobbies  of  the 
House.  It  used  to  be  jokingly  observed  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  turning  the  corner,  that  he  was  coming  back  the 
other  way,  and  that  in  fifty  or  sixty  years  more  he  would 
be  at  Eton,  playing  cricket  with  the  great-grandsons  of 
his  contemporaries. 

One  story,  I  remember,  was  told  of  a  neat  retort  by  a 
Liberal  Member  to  Mr.  Herbert  Gladstone,  to  whom  he 
applied  for  a  ticket  to  the  House. 

"  I  am  anxious,"  said  the  Member,  "  to  bring  my  boy, 
who  is  home  for  the  holidays,  to  hear  Mr.  Gladstone's  great 
speech.  I  should  specially  wish  him  to  hear  Mr.  Gladstone 
before  he  dies." 

Thereupon  Mr.  Herbert  Gladstone  retorted  somewhat 
hotly,  that  his  father  had  no  notion  of  dying  just  yet. 

"  Of  course,  I  know  that,"  said  the  Liberal  blandly,  "  I 
know  that  your  father  will  never  die.  When  I  said  that  I 
wanted  my  boy  to  hear  him  before  he  died,  it  was,  of  course, 
to  my  boy's  death  I  alluded." 

Two  illustrations  of  that  wonderful  vitality  and  vivacity 
are  present  to  my  recollection.  Mr.  Gladstone  never  shirked 
the  monotonous  labour  of  the  division  lobby.  I  have  seen 
him  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  time  after  time, 
march  with  shoulders  square  and  head  erect  through  division 
after  division.  Nor  was  this  all ;  while  others  loitered  in  the 
lobby  Mr.  Gladstone  seized  every  spare  moment  for  work. 

In  various  nooks  in  the  division  lobbies  of  the  House  of 
Commons  are  set  a  number  of  writing-tables  on  which  a 
letter  may  be  dashed  off  while  you  wait,  and  no  one  utilized 
those  tables  so  arduously  as  Mr.  Gladstone.  On  the  occasion 
I  have  in  mind,  he  had  got  to  a  table  almost  at  the  end  of 


228     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

the  lobby  furthest  from  the  exit,  and  was  instantly  im- 
mersed in  his  correspondence.  The  lobby  emptied  more 
rapidly  than  usual.  The  tellers,  who  stand  at  the  exit  door 
counting  their  flock  as  they  pass,  and  hurrying  up  the 
stragglers,  grew  impatient.  "  Door,  door !  "  they  cried, 
which  is  the  House  of  Commons'  equivalent  for  "hurry  up." 

I  saw  Mr.  Gladstone,  as  the  sound  reached  his  ears,  leap 
from  his  seat,  gather  his  letters  hastily  into  a  writing-case, 
and  go  racing  up  the  whole  length  of  the  lobby  with  head 
erect  and  elbows  well  tucked  in  to  his  sides  like  an  athlete 
on  the  track.  I  passed  him  again  just  as  he  entered  the 
House,  and  he  was  not  even  breathed  by  his  sprint.  When 
this  happened  he  was  well  over  eighty  years  of  age. 

On  another  occasion,  I  remember,  long  after  midnight, 
there  was  a  tremendous  crush  in  the  division  lobby,  while  the 
Members  dribbled  slowly,  one  by  one,  through  the  turnstile. 
At  the  outskirts  of  the  congested  district  was  Mr.  Gladstone, 
patiently  waiting  his  turn  with  the  rest.  I  contrived  to 
secure  a  chair,  which  I  offered  him,  but  he  put  it  aside  with 
a  gracious  gesture. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  smilingly,  "  it  would  never  do  for  me  to 
turn  obstructionist." 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  retired,  the  light  of  genius  was 
quenched  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  its  chief  charm 
departed.  We  had  many  able,  many  eloquent,  many 
brilliant  men  remaining,  but  no  second  Gladstone. 

The  dull  round  of  commonplace  debate  became  duller 
than  ever ;  there  was  no  longer  the  hope  of  one  of  his 
brilliant  flashes  of  genius  to  redeem  it. 

Mr.  Gladstone  honoured  me  personally  with  much 
kindness,  and  I  occasionally  heard  from  him  after  he 
retired,  in  the  form  of  correspondence  he  most  affected — 
the  post  card.  In  too  flattering  terms  he  accorded  me 
permission  to  dedicate  my  story,  "  Lord  Edward  FitzGerald," 
to  him,  as  the  "  best  English  friend  Ireland  has  ever  had." 

I  had  some  letters  and  many  post  cards  while  we  were  in 
the  House  together,  and  afterwards.  The  following  contain, 
so  far  as  I  am  aware,  his  latest  declarations  in  favour  of 
Home  Rule  for  Ireland  : — 


FRONT  BENCHERS  229 

"  SIR, 

"  I  return  my  best  thanks  for  your  note  and  kind 
gift.     They  will,  I  hope,  form  a  new  incitement  to  pre- 
serving effort  in  a  cause  which  I  believe  to  be  one  of  justice, 
peace  and  all  happy  results  for  every  one  affected  by  it. 
"  I  remain  your  very  faithful  and  obedient 

"  W.  GLADSTONE.       June  26,  '90." 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, 

"  One  word  to  offer  thanks  for  the  volume  I  had  just 
received,  and  to  assure  you  that  my  opinions  and  feelings 
with  regard  to  the  history  and  the  future  of  Ireland  remain 
totally  unchanged. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  W.  GLADSTONE.  July  16,  '96." 

So  much  has  been  said  and  written  about  Gladstone's 
change  of  politics,  that  it  is  interesting  to  learn  from  himself 
that  he  never  was  an  "  orthodox  Tory." 

"  SIR, 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  letter  and  enclosure. 
Undoubtedly  in  1832  I  was  an  earnest  Tory.  An  orthodox 
Tory  I  fear  I  never  was. 

"  Your  faithful  and  obedient 

"  W.  GLADSTONE.  April  12,  '87." 

Mr.  Gladstone's  first  lieutenant,  Sir  William  Harcourt, 
was  one  of  the  great  figures  in  the  House  impossible  to 
ignore  or  forget.  A  kindly  natured  man,  but  a  fine  fighter, 
Sir  William  was  the  "  Dugald  Dalgetty"  of  party  politics. 
He  followed  his  leader  in  sheer  loyalty  through  all  the  strain 
and  stress  of  the  Home  Rule  Campaign.  But  though  it 
may  be  that  the  personal  authority  of  Mr.  Gladstone  helped 
to  convince  him  of  the  necessity  for  Home  Rule,  his  con- 
viction was  none  the  less  sincere.  He  has  been  called  "  The 
Slogger  "  of  debate.  His  retorts  were  like  the  stroke  of  a 
broadsword,  not  evading,  but  breaking  down  the  guards  of 
his  opponents.  His  invective  went  home  like  the  straight- 
from-the-shoulder  blow  of  a  skilled  pugilist. 


230     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

I  have  him  now  in  my  mind  as  I  write,  towering  in  pride 
of  place  beside  Mr.  Gladstone  on  the  Government  benches  ; 
he  holds  in  his  hand  a  number  of  sheets  of  paper  from  which 
he  reads  his  speech,  verbatim  as  he  speaks  it,  but  there  was 
never  before  a  man  who  could  so  thoroughly  give  to  a 
written  speech  the  freedom,  force  and  verve  of  an  extem- 
porary oration.  When  he  flung  out  a  brilliant  taunt  or  a 
crushing  argument  at  the  Opposition  benches,  he  invariably 
turned  round  in  a  half-circle  to  face  the  loyal  ranks  behind 
him  in  quest  of  that  storm  of  applause  that  never  failed  to 
greet  his  oratorical  triumphs. 

Of  quite  a  different  style,  but  to  my  thinking  even  a  finer 
debater,  was  Mr.  Asquith.  He  was  of  Mr.  Chamberlain's 
school,  and  Chamberlain  at  his  very  best  was  no  match  for 
Asquith  at  his  best.  In  the  keen  conflict  of  debate  his 
intellectual  sword-play  was  quiet,  but  deadly,  and  he 
turned  the  blade  in  the  wound. 

I  remember  one  occasion  on  which  he  followed  and 
answered  Mr.  Chamberlain  in  a  speech  of  overruling  force. 
"  The  right  honourable  Member  for  West  Birmingham  has 
been  torpedoed  by  my  right  honourable  friend,"  was  Sir 
William  Harcourt's  description  of  the  result. 

It  is  curious  how  often  a  man  who  is  supreme  in  the  law 
courts  cuts  a  comparatively  poor  figure  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  Erskine  has  often  been  cited  as  an  example ;  Sir 
Charles  Russell  was  another.  Mr.  Healy  was  an  apparent 
exception  to  the  rule,  but  he  began  by  a  parliamentary 
training,  he  was  a  Member  first  and  a  lawyer  afterwards. 
The  traditions  and  restrictions  of  the  legal  training,  the 
anomalies  of  the  laws  of  evidence  hamper  the  parliamentary 
orator. 

A  great  Irish  Equity  lawyer,  after  his  first  experience  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  complained  that  a  Member  of 
Parliament  was  allowed  to  read  to  the  House  a  letter  which 
was  not  verified  by  an  affidavit. 

I  had  heard  Sir  Charles  Russell  in  the  Parnell  Commission 
before  I  heard  him  from  the  Government  benches.  He 
absolutely  dominated  the  Court,  judges  and  all.  His 
supremacy  was  born  witness  to  by  the  greatest  of  his  rivals. 


FRONT  BENCHERS  231 

Sir  Charles  had  dropped  some  paper,  and  flurried  and 
excited  was  looking  for  it  on  his  desk.  Sir  Henry  James, 
who  sat  beside  him,  stooped  down  and  lifted  the  paper  from 
the  floor  and  handed  it  back  to  his  famous  opponent. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  cried  Sir  Charles,  "  but  where 
did  you  find  it  ?  " 

"  Where  we  all  are,  Sir  Charles,"  replied  the  courtly  Sir 
Henry,  "  at  your  feet." 

Keen,  powerful,  dominating,  Russell,  Q.C.,  was  a  very 
different  person  from  mild,  deprecating  and  somewhat 
ineffective  Russell,  M.P.  In  the  same  way  Sir  Henry  James 
in  the  House  of  Commons  was  but  a  faint  reflection  of  Sir 
Henry  James  of  the  law  courts.  He  affected  in  Parliament 
an  air  of  extreme  respectability  which  earned  for  him  the 
name  of  prig,  and  made  him  the  target  of  many  stinging 
jibes  from  Mr.  Labouchere.  Next  to  Lord  Curzon  he  was  the 
most  "  superior  person  "  in  that  democratic  assembly. 

His  well-turned  homilies  are  best  remembered  by  a 
brilliant  epigram  which  one  of  them  extorted  from  Mr. 
Morley.  Sir  Henry  had  lectured  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  chiefly  the  Home  Rule  Government,  from  the  inacces- 
sible altitude  of  his  own  lofty  morality,  and  Mr.  Morley  rose 
to  reply. 

"  The  right  honourable  gentleman,"  he  said,  "  has 
treated  the  House  to  a  speech  which  is  an  admirable  com- 
bination of  the  forum,  the  pulpit  and  the  stage." 

The  scandalized  indignation  of  Sir  Henry  James  at  this 
sacrilege  intensified  the  amusement  of  the  audience. 

As  a  rule,  however,  Mr.  Morley,  second  only  on  the 
platform  to  Mr.  Gladstone  himself,  was  not  effective  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  The  atmosphere  seemed  to  unnerve 
him,  he  was  hesitating,  timid  and  too  prone  to  make  con- 
cessions to  his  opponents. 

While  I  was  a  Member  of  Parliament  my  services  on  the 
platform  were  frequently  requisitioned  by  British  Home 
Rulers,  and  everywhere  I  spoke  I  found  a  sympathetic  and 
encouraging  audience,  with  whom  a  little  humour  went  a 
long  way,  and  who  were  always  most  generous  with  the 
orator's  wages — laughter  and  cheers.  My  stock  argument 


232     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

that  Home  Rule  meant  the  bringing  of  friendship  between  the 
two  countries  never  failed  to  awaken  their  enthusiasm. 

Once  I  attended  with  the  then  Mr.  Sydney  Buxton,  lately 
ennobled,  a  meeting  of  his  constituents  in  London.  On 
the  way  to  the  meeting  he  warned  me  against  disappoint- 
ment at  the  apathy  with  which  he  expected  the  subject 
of  Home  Rule  would  be  received.  On  the  way  back  he 
confessed  that  Home  Rule  was  the  only  topic  that  had  really 
stirred  the  enthusiasm  of  his  constituents. 

I  had  a  very  amusing  experience  at  a  Woman's  Rights 
meeting  in  Swansea.  The  two  resolutions  were  Home  Rule 
and  Votes  for  Women.  When  Home  Rule  was  safely  carried 
I  expressed  some  doubts  about  the  propriety  of  votes  for 
women,  and  all  the  lady  orators  wasted  their  speeches  in  a 
good-humoured  attempt  to  convert  me,  while  the  men  in  the 
audience  enjoyed  the  joke.  What,  I  wonder,  would  be  the 
fate  of  a  man  who  would  dare  attempt  such  a  thing  now 
at  a  meeting  of  two  thousand  suffragettes  ? 

My  constant  companion  on  those  missionary  meetings  was 
a  brilliant  young  Welshman,  who  discoursed  about  Welsh 
Disestablishment  as  I  about  Home  Rule,  and  who  specially 
prided  himself  on  being  a  Celt.  Even  in  those  days  I  was 
charmed  by  his  brilliant  and  persuasive  eloquence.  His 
name  was  Lloyd  George. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
PORTRAITS   FROM  MEMORY 

An  eccentric  Solicitor- General — Briar  pipe,  coatless  and  hatless — 
Labouchere — "A  matter  of  conscience" — Balfour,  his  fascination — 
Chamberlain  and  Son — Gladstone's  compliment — McNeill's  inter- 
ruption, "  Send  for  Joe  !  " — Sexton — O'Brien — Dillon — Blake — Davitt 
— "  The  way  to  the  Bench  not  through  the  dock  " — Tim  Healy — An 
effective  intervention — "  Hicary  Vicary  Gibbs  " — T.  P.  O'Connor,  as 
a  speaker,  as  a  golfer — Justin  McCarthy — Out. 

THE  Solicitor-General  in  Gladstone's  last  Government 
was  Mr.  Ridley,  a  great  Equity  lawyer  with  a  very 
rotund  figure  and  a  curious  sing-song  intonation.  It  was 
thought  great  sport  for  young  Tory  bloods  to  bait  this  un- 
couth Solicitor-General,  and  whenever  there  was  a  lull  in 
the  debate  they  called  out :  "  Ridley  !  Ridley  !  "  But 
after  a  few  sharp  lessons  they  learned  that  that  game  did 
not  pay  :  they  got  too  much  of  Ridley.  Instead  of  address- 
ing the  House  in  the  usual  way  from  his  seat,  it  was  his 
custom  to  lumber  slowly  out  on  the  floor,  and  with  his 
stomach  against  the  table  and  his  face  directly  facing  the 
Speaker,  he  addressed  him  as  if  he  was  a  judge  in  a  law 
court.  But  he  always  spoke  with  homely  sense  and  cogency, 
and  soundly  trounced  his  unruly  interrupters.  On  one 
occasion  as  he  lumbered  into  his  accustomed  place,  a  much- 
worn  briar  pipe  dropped  from  his  hand  or  his  pocket  and 
bobbed  along  the  floor  amid  the  uproarious  laughter  of  the 
House,  whom  a  small  thing  mightily  amuses.  In  no  way 
disconcerted,  he  picked  it  up,  restored  it  to  his  pocket  and 
coolly  proceeded  with  his  speech.  Curiously  enough,  this 
little  incident  established  him  as  a  prime  favourite. 

In  my  life  I  never  met  a  man  so  indifferent  as  he  was  to 
appearances  and  conventions.  One  Sunday  forenoon  we 
went  out  together  to  dine  and  spend  the  Sunday  with  a 
colleague,  Mr.  Cobb,  M.P.,  who  had  a  very  pretty  place  at 

233 


234     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Harrow.  Elaborate  arrangements  had  been  made  to  have 
a  fly  at  the  station  to  meet  the  Solicitor-General.  But  we 
came  out  through  the  wrong  door.  There  was  no  fly  wait- 
ing, and  we  had  to  walk  a  good  mile  up  a  steep  hill  to  our 
destination.  It  was  a  blazing  hot  forenoon,  and  the  stout 
Solicitor-General  puffed  and  panted  as  he  toiled  up  the  hill 
while  all  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  Harrow  went  by  to 
church.  Presently,  to  my  amazement,  he  stopped  and 
pulled  off  his  frock-coat  and  folded  it.  Then,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, with  his  top-hat  in  his  right  hand  and  his  frock-coat 
over  his  left  arm,  the  Solicitor-General  for  England  pursued 
his  way  unabashed  amid  the  fashionable  throng.  On  our 
arrival  he  and  his  host  had  a  violent  altercation  on  the  "  fly  " 
question,  which  they  settled  amicably  over  a  quart  of 
shandygaff. 

One  of  my  pleasantest  recollections  of  the  House  is 
associated  with  Mr.  Labouchere.  In  the  dull  routine  of 
business  one  got  to  long  for  amusement  as  the  traveller  in 
the  desert  longs  for  water.  Mr.  Labouchere  was  always 
amusing,  with  that  curious  cynical  humour  of  his  own.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  if  he  had  been  less  amusing  he  would 
have  been  more  successful,  and  that  that  cynical  humour 
of  his  was  the  chief  barrier  against  his  entrance  to  the 
Cabinet. 

He  loved  a  piece  of  mischief  like  a  schoolboy.  One  story 
I  remember  well  which  fairly  indicates  his  tactics.  He  had 
a  motion  down  for  an  amendment  on  the  Address  condemn- 
ing the  House  of  Lords.  The  Government  opposed  the 
amendment.  Mr.  Tom  Ellis,  who  had  just  succeeded  Mr. 
Majoribanks  to  the  position  of  Chief  Liberal  Whip,  inter- 
viewed Mr.  Labouchere  on  the  subject.  But  Mr.  Labouchere 
persisted,  and  carried  his  motion  in  a  half-empty  house,  and 
I  heard  him  afterwards  in  the  smoke-room  detail  the  secret 
of  his  success. 

"  Ellis,"  he  said,  "  came  to  me  to  ask  me  how  many 
speakers  I  had,  how  many  promised  to  vote,  and  how  long 
the  debate  would  be  likely  to  last.  I  told  him  I  had  few 
supporters,  but  they  would  all  speak,  and  the  debate  would 
probably  last  some  hours.  He  believed  me,  and  let  his  men 


PORTRAITS  FROM  MEMORY  235 

go.  Five  minutes  afterwards  I  took  a  division  and  defeated 
the  Government. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  Ellis,"  said  Mr.  Labouchere  reflectively  ; 
"  he  is  a  decent  fellow,  and  it  may  get  him  into  trouble  ;  but 
on  a  question  of  principle  like  this  one  must  be  ready  to 
sacrifice  one's  own  father.  If  Majoribanks  were  there,"  he 
added  plaintively,  "  I  could  not  have  done  it,  for  Majori- 
banks would  not  have  believed  a  single  word  I  said." 

I  entered  the  House  with  a  very  bitter  personal  dislike 
of  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour,  whom  to  that  hour  I  had  never 
seen.  Before  I  was  a  week  there  I  found  myself  constantly 
struggling  against  the  inclination  to  like  him.  His  voice 
was  so  pleasant,  his  smile  so  captivating,  his  manner  so 
charming,  that  I  had  constantly  to  recall  the  incidents  of 
the  Coercion  regime,  which  he  personally  conducted  in 
Ireland,  in  order  to  arm  myself  against  his  fascination. 

In  startling  contrast  to  Mr.  Balfour  was  Mr.  Joseph 
Chamberlain,  whom  Irishmen  found  it  quite  easy  and 
natural  to  dislike.  Yet  it  is  hard  to  describe  the  repellent 
influence  he  exercised.  There  was  something  in  his  alert 
self-assurance,  in  his  caustic  speech,  that  grated  on  his 
hearers,  even  when  the  brilliancy  of  the  speech  itself — its 
logical  arguments  and  effective  sarcasm — compelled  admira- 
tion. The  hostility  which  Mr.  Chamberlain  provoked  was 
reflected  in  milder  form  on  his  son,  who  revolved  about  him 
as  a  satellite  round  a  sun. 

Mr.  Austen  Chamberlain,  as  I  remember  him,  was  a  hand- 
some, floridly  dressed  young  person,  who  in  the  dog  days  wore 
a  cummerbund  of  more  than  Oriental  splendour,  and  whose 
delight  it  was,  literally  and  figuratively,  to  sit  at  the  feet 
of  his  father  on  the  Cross-benches  and  punctuate  his  remarks 
with  enthusiastic  applause. 

This  same  young  gentleman  was  the  centre  of  an  affect- 
ing scene  when  he  made  his  maiden  speech  in  the  House. 
The  speech  itself  was  a  poor  affair  enough,  correct,  but 
commonplace  in  style  and  argument,  and  delivered  in  a 
somewhat  exaggerated  parody  of  his  father's  voice  and 
manner.  The  elder  Mr.  Chamberlain  was  horribly  uneasy 
while  the  younger  Mr.  Chamberlain  was  on  his  legs,  and  his 


236     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

uneasiness  was  intensified  when  at  the  close  of  Master 
Austen's  speech  Mr.  Gladstone  rose. 

To  everyone  in  the  House  it  was  plain  that  Mr.  Chamber- 
lain had  expected  a  specimen  of  the  genial  and  dexterous 
ridicule  of  which  the  Grand  Old  Man  was  past  master.  The 
opportunity  was  tempting — Mr.  Chamberlain  probably  knew 
that  under  similar  circumstances  he  himself  would  not  have 
resisted  it.  But  the  Grand  Old  Man  was  made  of  different 
material.  He  pronounced  a  delicate  eulogium  on  the  speech, 
kindly,  graceful  and  considerate,  with  just  here  and  there 
a  touch  of  judicious  flattery.  He  ended  with  a  generous 
compliment  to  the  young  orator,  whose  success  in  his 
maiden  effort  could  not  fail  to  be  "  dear  to  the  heart  of  a 
father." 

While  Mr.  Gladstone's  speech  was  in  progress  all  eyes 
were  turned  on  Mr.  Chamberlain,  and,  to  his  credit  be  it 
said,  he  was  visibly  and  deeply  affected  by  the  generosity 
of  Mr.  Gladstone. 

Before  I  am  done  with  Mr.  Chamberlain  let  me  mention 
one  most  amusing  incident,  of  which  Mr.  Swift  MacNeill,  M.P., 
was  the  hero.  Mr.  Chamberlain  was  moving  a  vote  of 
censure  on  the  Government.  He  read  a  ponderous  indict- 
ment with  grave  solemnity,  dwelling  on  the  several  crimes 
and  misdemeanours  of  the  Ministers  until  he  came  to  his 
peroration.  "  We  therefore,"  he  went  on,  "  respectfully 
advise  Her  Most  Gracious  Majesty  to " 

"  Send  for  Joe  !  "  shouted  Mr.  MacNeill  in  the  middle  of 
the  sentence. 

The  House  exploded  in  a  roar  of  laughter,  in  which  Mr. 
Chamberlain,  inaudible  and  indignant,  resumed  his  seat. 

Though  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy  was  Chairman  of  the  Irish 
party,  Mr.  Sexton,  as  his  first  lieutenant,  generally  took 
the  lead  in  the  House  of  Commons.  As  a  speaker  he  was 
generally  regarded  as  second  only  to  Mr.  Gladstone.  I  re- 
member Sir  George  Trevelyan,  returning  from  a  meeting, 
told  me  that  this  was  the  opinion  of  the  Speaker,  Peel,  and 
that  he  himself  thoroughly  shared  the  same  view. 

Two  parliamentary  exploits  of  Mr.  Sexton  live  very  dis- 
tinctly in  my  remembrance.  The  first  was  the  dressing  he 


PORTRAITS  FROM  MEMORY  237 

administered  to  the  present  Lord  Selborne  for  some  insult- 
ing allusion  to  the  Irish  party.  His  victim  sat  sulkily  silent 
with  bowed  head  and  flushed  face  under  the  torrent  of 
fiery  invective,  and  at  the  close  was  constrained  to  make, 
with  manifest  reluctance,  an  ungracious  apology. 

On  the  other  occasion  Mr.  Sexton  was  the  central  figure 
of  an  incident  that  went  near  to  disrupting  the  alliance 
between  the  Liberal  and  the  Irish  National  parties.  Mr. 
St.  John  Brodrick,  now  Lord  Midleton,  in  an  insulting 
speech  described  the  Irish  as  "  a  garrulous  and  impecunious 
race."  Mr.  Sexton,  in  reply,  characterized  the  observation 
as  "  impertinent."  At  the  instance  of  Mr.  Balfour  the  timid 
Chairman  of  Committee,  Mr.  Millar,  ruled  Mr.  Sexton's 
language  was  unparliamentary,  and  called  on  him  to  with- 
draw. The  ruling  was  plainly  absurd;  everyone  in  the 
House  knew  it  to  be  absurd,  and  Mr.  Sexton  refused  to 
obey  it. 

Then  followed  a  scene  of  tremendous  excitement.  Mr. 
Balfour  saw  his  advantage  and  pressed  it  home.  If  the 
House  divided  on  the  question  of  Mr.  Sexton's  expulsion 
for  refusing  to  obey  the  Chairman's  ruling,  the  Liberal  party 
would  either  be  compelled  to  vote  for  it  against  their  view 
and  inclination,  or  to  administer  a  snub  to  their  own  recently 
appointed  chairman,  which  would  compel  his  instant  resig- 
nation. Mr.  Gladstone  saved  the  situation  by  a  personal 
appeal  to  Mr.  Sexton. 

Mr.  O'Brien  and  Mr.  Dillon  spoke  very  seldom  in  those 
days,  and  when  they  did  speak  they  were  listened  to  with 
the  attention  which  earnestness  always  commands  in  that 
assembly. 

The  House  of  Commons  is,  however,  jealous  of  a  reputa- 
tion elsewhere  acquired.  The  Honble.  Mr.  Edward  Blake 
came  there  from  Canada,  where  he  was  the  leader  of  the 
Liberal  party  and  reputed  the  most  eloquent  man  in  the 
Dominion.  But  he  never  found  his  feet  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  His  stately  and  florid  style  was  not  relished  by 
an  assembly  which  is  intolerant  of  any  "  eloquence  "  except 
of  the  very  highest  order,  and  which  believes  with  Horace, 
"  si  paulo  a  summo  decessit  vergit  ad  immum." 


238     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

On  the  other  hand,  the  maiden  speech  of  Mr.  Michael 
Davitt  was  an  immediate  success.  Its  unaffected  simplicity 
captured  instant  approval,  for  there  is  nothing  the  House 
hates  like  affectation.  The  speech  contained  one  very  happy 
allusion.  The  previous  evening  Mr.  Barton,  now  Mr.  Justice 
Barton,  the  most  kindly  and  gentle  of  men,  had,  in  an 
earnest  and  eloquent  speech,  gravely  informed  the  astonished 
House  that  in  certain  eventualities  he  would  take  a  place 
beside  the  rioters  in  the  streets  of  Belfast. 

Mr.  Davitt  smilingly  rebuked  the  honourable  and  learned 
member  for  this  indiscretion.  "  The  way  to  the  Bencl  in 
Ireland,"  he  assured  him,  "  is  not  through  the  dock." 

The  maiden  speech  was  remarkable  for  another  and  some- 
what sensational  episode.  While  Davitt  was  speaking  a 
Tory  Member  hissed  out  the  word  "  Murderer  !  "  He  was 
instantly  brought  to  book  by  an  Irish  Member,  and  after 
the  lame  excuse  that  he  had  not  meant  the  insult  to  be 
heard,  he  was  compelled  to  make  abject  apology. 

Mr.  Healy's  impish  humour  made  him  an  immense 
favourite,  and  the  House  was  instantly  crowded  to  the  doors 
when  he  rose  with  Members  who  came  to  be  amused  or 
convinced.  Most  effective  was  his  performance  on  the  first 
night  of  the  guillotine. 

The  Unionists  were  furious  at  the  suggestion  of  closure 
by  departments  as  the  answer  to  obstruction,  and  had  stage- 
managed  a  sensational  effect  in  which  the  chief  role  was  to 
be  played  by  Mr.  Balfour  as  leader  of  the  Opposition.  It 
was  arranged  the  guillotine  should  first  fall  upon  him,  an 
indignant  martyr  to  the  cause  of  free  speech.  But  this  fine 
stage  effect  was  spoiled  by  Mr.  Healy,  who  contrived  to 
catch  the  Speaker's  eye  just  before  Mr.  Balfour  rose  and 
began  a  speech  of  delightful  humour.  For  a  time  the 
Unionists  enjoyed  it,  and  laughed  with  the  rest  at  his 
cynical  sallies.  But  presently  it  dawned  on  them  that  Mr. 
Balfour  was  to  be  robbed  of  his  opportunity  of  indignant 
protest,  and  they  began  to  shout,  "  'Vide,  'Vide  !  " 

Mr.  Healy  begged  them  not  to  be  impatient ;  he  entreated 
them  to  respect  the  liberty  of  debate.  The  division,  he 
assured  them,  would  come  soon  enough.  The  climax  was 


Photo  by  William  Lawrence,  Dublin. 

MICHAEL  DAVITT 


p.  238 


PORTRAITS  FROM  MEMORY  239 

reached  when  Mr.  William  Johnston,  of  Ballykilbeg,  jumped 
up  from  the  Unionist  side  to  move  the  very  closure  which 
Mr.  Balfour  had  got  ready  to  denounce. 

All  the  stuffing  was  knocked  out  of  the  protest  against 
the  guillotine.  "  You  surpassed  yourself  to-night,  Healy," 
I  heard  Sir  William  Harcourt  whisper  as  they  passed 
through  the  division  lobby  together. 

The  House  was,  indeed,  a  big  playground  for  Mr.  Healy, 
in  which  he  loved  to  disport  himself.  His  humour  had  a 
pungent  flavour  that  was  always  keenly  appreciated.  On 
one  occasion  as  Mr.  Harry  Forster,  who  had  just  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  manipulation  in  the  City  of 
"  Warner's  Safe  Cure,"  which  had  just  been  floated  as  a 
joint-stock  company,  was  addressing  the  House  in  an  irrele- 
vant speech,  Mr.  Healy  kept  up  a  constant  interruption  of 
"  Warner,  Warner,  Warner !  "  bobbing  up  and  down  on 
his  seat  with  the  glee  of  a  mischievous  schoolboy.  To  the 
Speaker  and  those  a  little  distance  away  the  interruption 
sounded  like  "  Order,  order,  order !  "  But  there  was  a 
ripple  of  laughter  round  the  unfortunate  Harry  Forster,  who 
daren't  protest.  Again  the  climax  was  reached  by  Mr. 
Johnston,  of  Ballykilbeg,  in  whose  madness  there  was 
method,  and  sometimes  a  spice  of  malice  as  well.  Gravely 
rising  to  a  point  of  order,  he  called  the  attention  of  the 
Speaker  to  the  obnoxious  word,  and  so  let  the  whole  House 
into  the  joke. 

Mr.  Healy  objected  to  the  name  Higgenbottom,  which  be- 
longed to  a  much  respected  parliamentary  reporter.  "  If 
I'd  a  name  like  that,"  he  said  to  me,  "  I'd  kick  the  bottom 
off  it." 

Another  name  which  amused  him  hugely  was  "  Vicary 
Gibbs."  Once,  when  Mr.  Gibbs  was  speaking,  Healy  nearly 
knocked  him  out  of  time  by  a  sudden  interruption.  Then 
I  saw  him  scribbling  delightedly  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  which 
he  handed  down  to  me,  and  I  read  : — 

Hicary  Vicary  Gibbs, 
A  mouse  ran  up  his  ribs, 
His  ribs  were  bare 
And  he  got  a  great  scare, 
Hicary  Vicary  Gibbs. 


240     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

One  of  the  most  popular  of  all  the  Irish  Members  with  all 
classes  and  conditions  of  men  was  T.  P.  O'Connor.  As  he 
walked  down  the  Terrace  everyone  he  met,  men  and  women, 
wanted  a  word  with  him.  There  were  few  more  effective 
speakers  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  no  more  effective 
speaker  on  the  platform.  He  was  constantly  beset  by 
Members  with  doubtful  seats  beseeching  him  to  speak  in 
their  constituencies.  I  have  heard  T.  P.  O'Connor's  devo- 
tion to  Home  Rule  questioned,  but  surely  he  has  given 
ample  proof  of  that  devotion.  If  he  had  chosen  to  cut  him- 
self loose  from  the  Irish  party,  he  might  easily  have  secured 
any  seat  he  desired  in  the  British  Cabinet. 

Socially  he  was  a  most  delightful  companion,  with  the 
frank  good-humour  of  a  big  child.  Occasionally  he  stayed 
with  me  when  he  visited  Dublin,  and  never  was  there  a 
more  delightful  guest.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
never  having  cared  in  the  least  for  outdoor  sports,  he  should 
in  middle  age  take  to  golf  with  the  absorbing  enthusiasm  of 
a  boy.  In  an  article  in  Fry's  Magazine  I  once  described  him 
as  the  keenest  golfer  and  the  worst  I  had  ever  known,  and 
he  cheerfully  accepted  the  description.  Five  yards  added 
to  his  fifty  yards  drive  was  a  matter  of  jubilation.  Once, 
when  we  were  playing  a  foursome  at  Dollymount,  he  con- 
trived to  hole  out  a  long  putt. 

"  T.P.,"  I  asked,  "  did  any  political  triumph  ever  give 
you  such  satisfaction  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  he  cried  enthusiastically.  "  I  swear  it, 
never  I  " 

It  is  one  of  the  proudest  privileges  of  my  life  to  be  able 
to  claim  as  friend  the  gentle,  kindly  and  courteous  man 
who  was  my  leader  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  word 
genial,  in  its  fullest  and  warmest  meaning,  fitted  Mr. 
Justin  McCarthy  like  a  glove.  I  never  knew  another  man 
so  kindly  natured — "  a  most  untiring  friend  in  doing 
courtesies."  It  has  been  said  somewhere  that  no  one  is 
worth  anything  who  has  no  enemies.  Mr.  McCarthy  gives 
the  lie  to  that  harsh  saying :  no  one  could  be  at  enmity 
with  him.  Though  he  never  shirked  a  duty  or  compromised 
a  principle,  though  he  spoke  his  mind  freely  when  plain 


PORTRAITS  FROM  MEMORY  241 

speaking  was  called  for,  he  was,  I  believe,  the  most  univer- 
sally popular  of  men.  I  remember  once  seeing  the  pro- 
spectus of  a  famous  American  literary  club  of  which  in 
their  time  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Emerson,  Hawthorne, 
Lowell,  and  indeed  all  the  lights  of  American  literature, 
were  prominent  members.  The  prospectus  contained  all 
the  names  of  the  presidents,  vice-presidents  and  members  of 
this  club.  There  was  a  single  page  reserved  for  "  honorary 
members,"  and  in  the  centre  of  that  white  page  there  was 
one  name  "  Justin  McCarthy." 

Yet  Mr.  McCarthy  was,  if  possible,  more  modest  than  he 
was  popular.  He  was  entirely  devoid  of  self-consciousness. 
Very  early  in  our  acquaintance,  when  I  still  looked  up  to 
him  with  something  of  awe,  he  asked  me  why  I  addressed 
him  as  Mr.  McCarthy.  I  stammered  some  kind  of  explana- 
tion. 

"  Don't  do  it  again,"  he  warned  me  genially.  "  Call  me 
Justin  ;  I  am  always  Justin  to  my  friends." 

I  am  glad  to  believe  that  our  friendship  grew  and  waxed 
strong  during  those  three  or  four  years  of  parliamentary 
hard  labour. 

There  was  a  bond  between  us  in  the  fact  that  we  were 
both  engaged  in  active  journalistic  work  at  the  time.  How 
well  I  remember  his  sympathetic  smile  as  we  stole  off  to- 
gether reluctantly  from  the  smoking-room  to  the  quieter 
galleries  of  the  House,  where  we  could  make  copy  in  peace. 

"  Going  to  get  ready  my  shower  of  frogs,"  was  his  phrase 
for  the  writing  of  one  of  his  genial  and  delightful  articles 
for  the  Daily  News. 

During  the  whole  of  my  parliamentary  experience  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  dine  at  the  same  time  and  at  the  same 
table  with  Justin  McCarthy.  It  was  in  a  quiet  little  corner 
of  the  big  dining-room.  The  fine  literary  flavour  of  his 
comment  and  outlook  on  men  and  things  made,  indeed,  a 
rare  intellectual  treat.  The  dinner-hour  was  for  me  a  de- 
lightful oasis  in  the  dreary  desert  of  the  parliamentary 
day. 

Though  Justin  McCarthy  usually  delegated  the  work  of 
leadership  to  Mr.  Sexton,  he  spoke  occasionally  with  a  power 


242     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

that  one  would  hardly  expect  from  a  man  of  his  gentle  and 
genial  nature.  I  remember  few  things  more  effective  than 
his  reply  to  the  present  Prime  Minister,  Mr.  Asquith,  who, 
as  Home  Secretary,  in  a  hard  and  unsympathetic  speech, 
refused  to  consider  the  release  of  certain  political  prisoners. 

"  The  right  honourable  gentleman,"  said  the  gentle  Justin, 
"  has  not  merely  closed  the  prison  gates  on  these  unhappy 
men,  he  has  closed  them  with  a  clang." 

Later  on  I  shall  have  a  word  to  say  about  the  visit  I  paid 
the  dear  old  veteran  in  his  retirement  at  Westgate-on-Sea. 

While  a  Member  in  the  House  of  Commons  I  also  took  an 
actual  part  in  the  National  organization  in  Ireland,  as  the 
following  letter  may  testify  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  BODKIN, 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  the  grand  work  you  have 
done.  You  have  certainly  been  largely  instrumental  in 
saving  the  situation  in  Dublin  from  a  diabolical  tangle.  It 
is  terrible  to  allow  affairs  to  drift  into  such  a  position  when 
all  danger  and  trouble  could  be  avoided  by  a  decision  taken 
in  time.  .  .  . 

"  You  have  done  splendidly  for  the  parliamentary  fund. 
Before  you  went  over  it  was  under  an  extinguisher. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  JOHN  DILLON." 

It  is  now  no  secret  that  when  the  House  of  Lords  rejected 
Home  Rule  Mr.  Gladstone  was  in  favour  of  appealing  to 
the  country.  He  was  overruled  and  retired,  and  Lord 
Rosebery  slipped  into  his  place.  In  his  first  speech  as 
Prime  Minister  Lord  Rosebery  declared  that  there  was  "  no 
change  of  policy,  only  a  disastrous  change  of  leaders."  The 
last  part  of  the  sentence,  at  least,  proved  pitifully  true. 
From  the  date  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  retirement  the  session  was 
an  anti-climax.  We  plodded  through  routine  work,  the 
Irish  party  loyally  backing  up  their  Liberal  allies  who  had 
passed  Home  Rule.  Often  when  I  hear  afterwards  of  Ireland's 
ingratitude  to  the  Liberal  party  I  remember  that  dreary 
period  when  the  Irish  party  loyally  helped  the  Liberals  to 


PORTRAITS  FROM  MEMORY  243 

hold  their  places  and  pass  their  Bills  with  the  assurance  of 
a  reciprocal  loyalty  to  Home  Rule. 

The  end  came  suddenly  at  last. 

There  was  a  snap  division  in  a  thin  House,  and  the  Liberals 
were  put  to  their  choice — either  rescind  the  vote,  which  they 
could  easily  have  done,  if  so  disposed,  or  go  to  the  country. 
The  issue  at  the  General  Election  was  raised  in  Mr.  Morley's 
famous  phrase  "  to  mend  or  end  the  House  of  Lords."  But 
the  Liberals  were  hampered  with  the  leadership  of  a  lord, 
whose  shuffling  and  faltering  at  every  step  led  them  to 
ruin. 

For  myself,  I  dropped  out  of  Parliament  quietly,  though, 
let  me  confess,  reluctantly  as  well. 

I  look  back  over  my  time  there  with  a  curious  fascination. 
I  do  not  regret  the  experience  so  dearly  bought.  It  is  some- 
thing, it  is  much,  to  have  recorded  a  vote  in  that  momentous 
division  on  Home  Rule  ;  it  is  much  to  have  mingled  as  an 
actor,  however  humble,  in  those  momentous  happenings. 

Would  I  like  to  be  back  again  ?  Let  me  be  quite  frank 
and  confess  I  would.  The  House  of  Commons  grips  a  man 
even  while  he  grumbles. 

For  years  after  I  had  committed  parliamentary  suicide 
I  could  not  bear  to  revisit  the  House.  I  had  a  curious 
objection  to  being  stopped  at  this  door  or  that  as  a  mere 
member  of  the  public,  and,  above  all,  at  the  door  of  the 
Legislative  Chamber  itself,  through  which  as  a  Member  of 
the  House  I  passed  freely.  When  at  last  I  conquered  my 
repugnance,  I  was  surprised  to  find  myself  recognized  and 
accosted  by  the  officials.  But  my  feelings,  as  I  chatted  with 
my  friends  and  former  colleagues  who  came  and  went 
through  the  swinging  doors  of  the  House  (with  a  big  "  H  "), 
were  a  very  fair  imitation  of  those  of  Tom  Moore's  famous 
Peri,  who 

At  the  open  gate 
Of  Eden  stood  disconsolate. 

I  had  many  flattering  requests  to  return,  the  most  flatter- 
ing from  my  native  place,  the  Tuam  Division  of  County 
Galway,  endorsed  by  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  who  enclosed 
to  me  the  letter  addressed  to  him  on  the  subject  by  an 


244     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

influential  priest  of  the  district,  and  backed  up  the  request 
by  an  earnest  appeal  of  his  own.  "  I  have  no  doubt,"  he 
wrote,  "  that  you  would  be  the  best  candidate  for  North 
Galway.  Is  your  resolution  not  to  contest  any  constituency 
irrevocable  ?  " 

Again  my  poverty,  and  not  my  will,  refused.  My  practice 
at  the  Bar  had  necessarily  been  much  impaired  by  my 
absence  in  Parliament,  and  to  supplement  my  income  I 
settled  down  to  a  new  phase  of  Press  life  as  chief  leader 
writer  to  the  Freeman's  Journal,  a  position  which  I  could 
not  afford  to  abandon. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  EDITORIAL  "WE" 

Tricks  of  the  trade — Searching  for  subjects — "  God  save  the  King  !  "— 
Campbell-Bannerman  and  Lord  Rosebery — Raising  the  flag  of  Home 
Rule — The  editor's  sanctum — Miscellaneous  visitors — A  Christian 
Science  miracle. 

I  HAVE  already  commented  on  the  ignorance  of  the  man 
in  the  street  regarding  the  life-work  of  the  purveyor  of 
news,  his  ignorance  of  the  purveyor  of  opinions  is  even  more 
remarkable.  The  newspaper  reader  is  on  intimate  terms 
with  the  newspaper  writer.  He  chats  with  him  at  breakfast, 
gossips  at  lunch  and  settles  down  for  a  serious  talk  after 
dinner,  yet  he  knows  absolutely  nothing  of  his  guide, 
philosopher  and  friend.  The  leading  articles  in  the  favourite 
journal  are  read  and  quoted  without  a  thought  of  how  they 
came  to  be  written.  The  mysterious  editorial  "  we  "  is 
vaguely  suggestive  of  an  oracle  kept  tame  on  the  newspaper 
premises  and  ready  to  deliver  impromptu  and  infallible 
pronouncements  on  every  subject  under  heaven,  for  the 
leader  writer  must  know  something  of  everything,  or  at 
least  successfully  assume  a  knowledge  if  he  have  it  not. 

During  the  years  I  was  chief  editorial  writer  of  the  Freeman 
I  went  down  to  the  office  every  night  at  about  ten  and 
returned  at  two  or  three  in  the  morning.  Some  nights  my 
themes  were  provided  by  the  editor,  others  I  had  to  find 
them  for  myself.  In  dull  times  this  hunting  up  of  subjects 
was  the  hardest  part  of  the  night's  work.  The  choice  was 
wide,  ranging,  as  our  editor,  W.  F.  Brayden,  used  to  remark, 
from  "  cholera  to  cooling  drinks,"  and  it  was  hard  to  know 
whether  to  treat  the  public  to  a  column  of  grave  instruction 
or  a  column  of  lively  chaff.  The  trouble  was  to  make  a  trite 

245 


246     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

subject  interesting  or  a  complex  subject  clear  within  the  in- 
exorable limits.  Very  often  the  writer's  chief  care  was  to 
conceal  his  own  ignorance,  to  avoid  palpable  blunders.  But 
there  are  few  subjects  on  which  a  reasonably  competent 
leader  writer  does  not  know  a  column's  worth,  and  it  is  his 
function  to  put  into  his  leader  everything  he  knows  and 
nothing  that  he  doesn't. 

A  harder  ordeal  still  in  times  of  stress  was  to  keep  pace 
with  sudden  emergencies.  Very  often  the  editor  would 
place  in  my  hands  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  the 
first "  flimsies  "  announcing  some  striking  event,  the  delivery 
of  an  eloquent  speech,  the  passing  of  an  important  Act  of 
Parliament,  and  my  comment  would  have  to  keep  pace 
with  the  "  flimsies  "  as  they  came  from  the  telegraph  en 
route  for  the  printing  office,  so  that  the  last  page  of  news 
and  the  last  page  of  the  article  should  go  out  together  to  the 
compositors.  Next  morning  such  hastily  concocted  com- 
ment is  accepted  by  the  readers  as  the  gravely  considered 
judgment  of  the  editorial  "  we." 

Hasty  writing  is  saved  by  hasty  reading.  Few  people  think 
of  criticizing  a  newspaper.  Now  and  again  it  has  happened 
that  a  series  of  leading  articles  that  have  attracted  attention 
at  the  time  of  their  publication,  have  been  subsequently 
compiled  into  a  book,  but  it  has  almost  invariably  been 
observed  that  the  "  thoughtful "  article  becomes  prosy 
and  the  "  vigorous  "  article  becomes  "  bunkum  "  when 
subjected  to  such  treatment. 

The  leader  writer  is  occasionally  betrayed  into  amusing 
absurdities.  We  all  know  the  celebrated  instance  of  the 
writer  in  the  Skibbereen  Eagle,  who  gravely  commenced  an 
article  with  the  solemn  announcement :  "  We  have  our  eye 
on  the  Emperor  of  Russia."  Dickens,  it  is  said,  could  never 
afterwards  hear  the  word  Skibbereen  mentioned  without  a 
convulsion  of  irrepressible  laughter. 

A  blunder  at  least  as  ludicrous  occurred  within  my  own 
personal  knowledge.  A  leader  writer  in  the  Conservative 
organ  The  Down  Recorder  was  discussing  the  propriety  of 
arresting  Mr.  Parnell,  a  course  which  he  admitted  might  be 
followed  by  some  local  disturbance.  "  But  the  Government," 


THE  EDITORIAL  "WE"  247 

he  continued,  "  in  this  matter  may  learn  a  useful  lesson 
from  the  pages  of  history.  About  fifty  years  ago,  the  his- 
torian tells  us,  an  emeute  occurred  in  a  remote  town  in 
Cornwall.  The  Government  promptly  arrested  a  man 
named  Trelawny,  who  was  the  ringleader  of  the  disturbance, 
and  conveyed  him  in  custody  to  London.  Now  this  Tre- 
lawny was  a  person  of  considerable  local  influence,  and  the 
miners  manifested  their  indignation  by  parading  the  streets 
of  the  town  singing  a  seditious  chorus  : — 

And  shall  Trelawny  die  ? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die  ? 

Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornishmen 

To  know  the  reason  why. 

But  the  Government,  undeterred  by  these  threats,  inflicted 
on  Mr.  Trelawny  the  punishment  his  offences  deserved,  and 
this  vigour  had  a  most  salutary  effect  on  quelling  the  dis- 
turbances." 

For  myself  I  am  glad  to  believe  that  my  many  thousand 
leading  articles  are  buried  in  unfathomable  oblivion.  Yet  it 
is  pleasant  also  to  think  that  once  in  a  way  an  article  written 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  may  have  done  some  service  in 
its  time,  helped  a  good  cause  forward  or  hindered  a  bad  one. 
This  much,  at  least,  I  may  claim,  I  never  wrote  a  line  that 
did  not  express  my  honest  conviction. 

One  night  when  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  subject,  the  news  was 
wired  to  the  Freeman's  Journal  Office  that  the  King's 
coronation  had  to  be  postponed,  and  that  his  Majesty 
himself  had  just  submitted  to  a  painful  and  dangerous 
operation  for  appendicitis,  of  which  the  issue  was  still 
doubtful.  My  subject  was  found  for  me. 

"  Controversy  is  hushed,"  I  wrote,  "  in  the  face  of  this 
pitiful  human  tragedy.  For  the  moment  men  of  all  opinions 
in  Ireland  regard  the  King  not  as  the  monarch,  but  as  the 
man.  We  see  him,  not  resplendent  on  a  throne  with  crowds 
assembled  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  to  do  him 
homage,  but  helpless  on  a  bed  of  pain,  dubiously  hovering 
between  life  and  death.  Amid  the  impending  pomp  and 
ceremony  of  the  coronation,  poor  frail  humanity  has  claimed 
the  King  as  her  own,  an  urgent  claim  and  not  to  be  denied. 


248     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

In  the  very  hour  of  his  supremest  triumph  he  has  been 
constrained  to  drain  to  the  dregs  the  bitter  cup  of  suffering 
from  which  no  son  of  Adam  is  exempt.  The  royal  body  has 
felt  not  the  touch  of  the  consecrating  chrism,  but  the  keen 
edge  of  the  surgeon's  knife.  Surely  never  was  a  more  vivid 
example  of  the  vanity  of  human  wishes,  the  littleness  of 
human  greatness.  The  news  of  his  sickness,  flashed  over 
the  land  and  through  the  sea,  has  sent  a  thrill  through  the 
world  of  pity  and  dismay.  In  every  country,  from  the  Court 
to  the  cottage,  there  is  thought  and  talk  to-day  of  the  King 
of  England,  Emperor  of  India  and  Lord  of  the  British 
Dominions  beyond  the  Seas,  sick,  even  to  death,  on  the  eve 
of  his  coronation.  But  how  poor  a  thing,  and  of  how  small 
moment,  is  the  world's  anxiety  to  the  mere  suffering  man  ! 
How  little  avails  him  now  the  flattery  and  homage  of  the 
world  ! 

O,  be  sick,  great  greatess, 
And  bid  thy  ceremony  give  thee  cure  ; 
Thinkst  thou  the  fiery  fever  will  go  out 
With  titles  blown  from  adulation  ? 
Will  it  give  place  to  flexture  and  low  bending  ? 
Canst  thou,  when  thou  commandst  the  beggar's  knee, 
Command  the  health  of  it  ? 

"  Never  had  moralist  a  more  convincing  theme  to  rail 
against  the  servile  worship  or  the  sordid  envy  of  wealth  or 
pomp  or  power  that  avail  so  little  against  pain,  disease  and 
death. 

"  Joined  with  the  feeling  of  human  sympathy  with  the 
prostrate  monarch,  there  is  a  touch  of  inevitable  admiration 
for  the  Spartan  heroism  with  which  he  has  borne  up  so  long 
against  the  disease  that  was  gnawing  at  his  vitals. 

"  The  Irish  party  had  refused  to  take  part  in  the  cere- 
monial of  the  Coronation,  but  in  the  Irish  isolation  and 
protest  there  was  mingled  no  feeling  of  personal  animosity 
to  the  King.  The  belief  is  current  in  Ireland,  and  not  with- 
out reason,  that  the  King  was  friendly  to  a  treaty  of  peace 
between  the  two  nations,  conceived  and  almost  accom- 
plished by  the  great  British  statesman  for  whom  he  always 
manifested  a  profound  respect  and  admiration,  never  more 
plainly  manifested  than  when  Gladstone  was  engaged  in  his 


THE  EDITORIAL  "WE"  249 

heroic  struggle  for  Home  Rule.  Still,  Ireland  alone  out  of 
the  whole  British  Empire  stood  aloof  from  all  participation 
in  the  coronation.  Ireland  denied  homage  to  the  mighty 
King  in  the  hour  of  his  glory.  She  will  not  deny  her 
sympathy  to  the  suffering  man  in  the  hour  of  his  helplessness 
and  danger.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  history,  and 
not  in  the  blatant  and  insulting  spirit  in  which  the  words  are 
so  often  spoken  in  this  island,  she  breathes  the  prayer  to- 
day, '  God  save  the  King  ! '  " 

I  have  selected  this  article  from  the  many  thousand  I 
have  written,  because  of  the  sensation  it  created,  not  on  its 
own  account,  but  by  reason  of  its  appearance  in  a  Nation- 
alist newspaper.  It  was  copied  verbatim  into  the  London 
dailies,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  attract  the  attention 
of  his  Majesty  the  King. 

I  was  told  on  good  authority,  and  repeat  the  story  for 
what  it  may  be  worth,  that  his  late  Majesty  questioned  Sir 
Thomas  Lipton,  as  one  likely  to  know,  concerning  the  name 
of  the  writer.  Sir  Thomas  Lipton  could  only  tell  him  that 
Mr.  Thomas  Sexton  was  the  chairman  of  the  Freeman's 
Journal  Company.  With  this  his  Majesty  was  satisfied.  He 
naturally  assumed  that  the  best  intellect  at  the  company's 
disposal  would  be  devoted  to  a  subject  so  important.  He 
had  always,  he  was  pleased  to  say,  greatly  admired  the 
speeches  of  Mr.  Sexton.  "  Sic  vos  non  vobis  nidificatis  aves." 

One  other  article  I  may  mention  which  was  not  without 
its  influence  on  men  and  affairs.  On  the  eve  of  the  General 
Election  that  dismissed  the  Unionists  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  quibbling  among  the  Liberal  leaders,  under  the  influence 
of  Lord  Rosebery,  on  the  question  of  Home  Rule.  It  was 
for  the  most  part  accepted  by  the  Liberals  as  a  pious  opinion, 
but  it  was  tabooed  as  an  issue  in  the  election,  and  a  pledge 
was  volunteered  to  the  electors  that  no  Home  Rule  Bill 
would  be  introduced  during  the  ensuing  session. 

Just  at  this  time  Sir  Henry  Campbell-Bannerman  made  a 
stirring  speech  at  Stirling,  in  which  he  freely  recognized  the 
justice  of  the  Irish  claim  and  pledged  himself  to  active 
support. 

Thereupon  I  wrote  an  article  in  the  Freeman's  Journal  in 


250     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

thorough  approval  of  the  speech,  concluding  with  the  words  : 
"  Every  vote  given  for  Campbell-Bannerman  is  a  vote 
given  for  Home  Rule." 

Next  day  the  article  was  quoted  by  Lord  Rosebery 
as  proof  that  there  was  a  full  understanding  between 
Campbell-Bannerman  and  the  Irish  Home  Rulers.  "  He 
has  raised,"  said  Lord  Rosebery,  "  the  banner  of  Home  Rule 
in  its  most  undisguised  form,  and  under  that  banner  I,  for 
one,  refuse  to  serve." 

To  his  Lordship's  desertion  the  Liberals  were  largely 
indebted  for  their  overwhelming  victory  at  the  polls.  From 
that  time  until  the  election  was  over  the  Freeman's  Journal 
article  was  freely  quoted  on  the  Unionist  platform  and  in  the 
Unionist  Press  as  a  proof  that  Home  Rule  was  the  real  issue 
before  the  electors,  with  a  result  exceedingly  satisfactory  for 
Home  Rulers. 

The  editor's  sanctum  of  a  daily  paper  has  a  strange 
attraction  for  all  classes  and  conditions  of  people.  As  acting- 
editor  of  the  Freeman  during  the  vacations  and  other 
necessary  absences  of  the  editor,  Mr.  Bray  den,  I  had  some 
curious  experiences.  Certainly  I  had  no  reason  to  complain 
of  lack  of  variety  or  humour  in  my  correspondence  and 
visitors. 

The  letters  that  appear  in  a  newspaper  are  not  by  any 
means  as  interesting  as  letters  that  are,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  suppressed  as  unfit  for  publication.  The  editor's 
visiting  list  is  most  miscellaneous.  On  the  same  night  I  have 
interviewed  a  pugilist  (Jem  Corbett),  a  bishop,  an  actor,  an 
author  and  a  publican. 

A  charming  old  lady  came  to  me  on  one  occasion  to 
complain  to  me  of  a  severe  article  which  I  had  written 
ridiculing  the  pretensions  of  Christian  Scientists. 

I  explained  that  these  were  my  honest  views  and  that  I 
felt  bound  to  express  them,  but  I  readily  consented  to 
publish  a  letter  from  her  in  reply,  which  I  regarded  as 
excellent  "  copy." 

Thereupon  she  essayed  to  convert  me,  instancing  many 
remarkable  cures  within  her  own  experiences. 

I  stated  my  position.    All  these  cures  seemed  to  me,  I  said, 


THE  EDITORIAL  "WE"  251 

allowing  for  natural  exaggeration  in  the  telling  of  them, 
to  be  quite  possible  by  natural  means.  But  if  a  man's  leg 
was  cut  off  at  the  thigh  and  the  Christian  Scientists  by  their 
prayers  grew  another  leg  on  to  the  stump,  I  would  be 
convinced.  If  their  doctrine  were  sound,  I  added,  such  a 
feat  would  be  as  easy  as  to  cure  a  cold  in  the  head,  and  a 
good  deal  more  convincing. 

The  dear  old  lady  gravely  considered  my  suggestion. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  must  confess,  I  never 
came  across  exactly  such  an  instance  as  you  mention.  But 
I  knew  a  case  of  a  bad  sprained  ankle  that  was  cured  in  less 
than  a  fortnight." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


Sir  Hugh  Lane,  an  authority  on  Art — A  touch  of  his  quality — Captain 
Shaw  Taylor,  social  reformer — "The  man  for  Gal  way  " — Author  of  the 
Land  Conference — A  questionable  Corot — A  curious  incident — The 
Captain  and  the  screwdriver. 

WITH  two  very  interesting  men,  less  known  than  they 
deserve  to  be  by  the  outside  public,  my  editorial 
duties  made  me  acquainted — Sir  Hugh  Lane,  the  great 
picture  connoisseur,  and  Captain  Shaw  Taylor,  the  social 
reformer. 

When  Sir  Hugh  gave  his  first  great  exhibition  in  Dublin, 
though  I  yield  to  no  man  in  my  ignorance  of  painting,  I 
agreed  to  write  the  notice  for  the  Freeman's  Journal,  and 
by  the  assimilation  of  hints  and  suggestions,  a  very  necessary 
faculty  of  the  journalist,  and  by  writing  all  the  little  I  knew 
and  carefully  evading  the  great  deal  I  didn't  know,  I 
contrived  a  three-column  article  that  pleased  and  helped 
him.  His  gratitude  was  the  beginning  of  our  friendship. 

It  is  no  place  here  to  speak  of  the  incomparable  service 
Sir  Hugh  rendered  to  Dublin  by  the  formation  of  the 
Municipal  Gallery  of  Modern  Art,  and  his  princely  bene- 
factions to  the  collection ;  but  I  must  say  a  word  or  two  of  his 
strange  gift,  instinct,  genius,  call  it  what  you  will,  for  dis- 
cerning and  identifying  pictures  however  disguised  by  age 
or  grime. 

He  lives  for  pictures  and  by  pictures.  His  eyes  are  more 
discriminating  of  artistic  excellence  than  the  sensitive 
palate  of  the  taster  in  determining  the  quality  of  a  tea  or  the 
vintage  of  a  wine.  The  thickest  coating  of  dirt,  even  another 
picture  superimposed,  cannot  hide  a  masterpiece  from  those 
bright  eyes  of  his.  Nor  can  he  explain  quite  satisfactorily 
how  he  arrives  at  his  conclusions.  It  is  a  purely  natural 

252 


TWO  MEN  WORTH   KNOWING  253 

gift  that  was  his  from  a  boy.  To  my  thinking  he  is  like 
the  man  in  the  fairy-tale  on  whose  eyes  the  magic  ointment 
was  rubbed,  which  enabled  him  to  detect  treasures  hidden 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

I  have  heard  many  startling  stories  of  this  strange  gift  of 
Sir  Hugh  Lane's.  Let  me  instance  a  couple  that  came  under 
my  own  personal  notice. 

One  day,  as  I  was  looking  through  the  window  of  an  old 
curiosity  shop  in  Dublin,  Sir  Hugh  came  behind  me  and 
touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  he  said,  "  and  see  if  he  has  any  pictures." 

We  climbed  to  a  wide  empty  attic  hung  round  with 
paintings  of  all  sorts,  mostly  daubs. 

"  That,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  pointing  to  a  small  dirty  panel 
that  hung  high  up  on  the  wall,  "  is  a  Van  Goyen.  No,  let 
me  see,  it  is  by  a  pupil  of  his,  Pieter  Moylyn." 

We  fetched  up  the  proprietor.  He  named  a  different 
painter.  But  when  the  picture  was  taken  down  and  closely 
examined,  there  was  found  in  the  corner  the  signature  that 
justified  Sir  Hugh.  Through  the  mask  of  dirt  he  had 
identified  this  second-class  Dutch  painter  as  quickly  and  as 
confidently  as  a  man  identifies  the  familiar  hand-writing  of  a 
friend.  The  charming  little  landscape  hangs  in  my  parlour 
as  a  memento  of  the  incident. 

Another  illustration  I  may  offer  as  striking  and  more 
amusing. 

"  I  have  found  a  very  dirty  Sal  vat  or  Rosa,"  said  Sir  Hugh 
one  morning  to  my  son,  who  had  won  his  favour  by  a 
discriminating  taste  for  pictures.  "  It  is  hidden  away  in  an 
old  curiosity  shop,  and  I  am  going  to  buy  it  for  you  and  show 
you  how  to  clean  it."  Then,  having  arranged  their  plan  of 
campaign,  they  proceeded  together  to  the  shop. 

Sir  Hugh  spoke  to  the  proprietor,  who  knew  them  both. 

"  I  want  to  teach  young  Mr.  Bodkin,"  he  said,  "  how  to 
clean  a  picture,  and  I  want  the  dirtiest  you  have.  I  think 
that "  (pointing  to  a  manifest  daub  that  hung  in  the  full 
light)  "  about  fills  the  bill ;  what  is  the  price  of  that  ?  " 

Before  the  other  could  reply,  my  son,  by  prearrangement, 
chimed  in. 


254     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  I  think  that  is  even  dirtier,"  he  said,  and  indicated  the 
Salvator  Rosa. 

"  All  right,"  Lane  answered  carelessly,  "  have  it  your  own 
way.  What  is  the  price  of  either  of  these  two  ?  " 

"  You  can  have  your  choice  for  fifteen  shillings,"  said  the 
dealer,  and  they  chose  the  Salvator  Rosa. 

When  I  saw  the  picture  after  the  purchase,  it  was  a 
broad  square  of  canvas  caked  all  over  with  dirt.  Under 
Sir  Hugh's  careful  cleaning,  it  resolved  itself  into  a  bearded 
old  man  with  a  basket  on  his  back.  Both  Sir  Hugh  and  my 
son  were  in  artistic  ecstasies  over  the  wonderful  red  of  his 
tattered  old  coat. 

Captain  Shaw  Taylor  never  achieved  with  the  public  the 
reputation  to  which  his  ability  and  services  entitled  him. 
To  him,  more  than  to  any  other  man,  was  due  the  final  settle- 
ment of  the  Irish  Land  Question.  For  he  originated  the 
startling  idea  of  a  friendly  Land  Conference  between  the 
representatives  of  landlords  and  tenants,  and  in  the  face  of 
difficulties  that,  to  any  other  man,  would  have  been  irresist- 
ible, he  carried  his  audacious  project  to  a  successful  issue. 
He  had  boundless  energy  and  a  captivating  manner ;  no 
rebuff  discouraged,  no  difficulty  damped  him,  and  when  he 
took  you  into  his  confidence  with  his  friendly  formula, 
"  between  you  and  me  and  the  bedpost,"  he  was  impossible 
to  resist. 

In  one  of  his  random  sketches  Judge  Adams  gives  us 
some  interesting  sidelights  on  the  character  of  the  Captain. 

It  seemed  that  a  process-server  had  served  a  writ  on 
Captain  Shaw  Taylor  that  was  meant  for  another  officer, 
and  by  way  of  punishment  the  Captain  had  him  locked  up 
for  half  an  hour  in  the  guard-room.  The  case  came  before 
Judge  Adams  on  a  process  for  false  imprisonment.  In 
delivering  judgment  Adams  quoted  for  the  Captain  (himself 
a  Galway  man)  Lever's  rollicking  lines  : — 

To  drink  a  toast, 
A  proctor  roast, 

Or  bailiff,  as  the  case  is  ; 
To  kiss  your  wife, 
To  take  a  life 

At  ten  or  fifteen  paces ; 


TWO  MEN  WORTH   KNOWING  255 

To  keep  game  cocks. 
To  hunt  the  fox, 

To  drink  in  punch  the  Solway  ; 
With  debts  galore, 
With  fun  far  more, 

Oh,  that's  the  man  for  Galway  1 

This  high  ideal  of  a  Galway  man's  duties,  the  judge 
explained,  was  no  longer  recognized  by  the  law,  and  he 
awarded  the  bailiff  the  liberal  damages  of  a  pound. 

"  But,"  Adams  continued,  "  the  Captain  bore  no  malice, 
for  a  very  little  time  afterwards  he  asked  me  to  dine  at  the 
mess.  He  was  a  charming  and  most  hospitable  host.  But 
I  noticed  after  a  time  that,  while  he  plied  his  guests  with  the 
foaming  grape  of  Eastern  France  he  himself  washed  down  his 
viands  with  that  unexciting  tipple,  Limerick  pipe-water.  I 
said,  '  You  don't  take  wine  ? '  '  Ah,  no,'  he  said,  '  you  see, 
I'm  always  at  the  poor  Tommies  about  drinking,  and  how 
could  I  have  any  weight  with  them  if  I  took  wine  myself  ?  ' 

"  After  dinner  cigarettes  were  handed  round  in  due 
course,  and  again  I  observed  that  my  Captain  did  not  smoke. 
It  was  the  same  reason.  '  The  poor  Tommies,'  he  said, 
'  spend  all  their  money  in  buying  cigarettes  and  ruin  their 
health  inhaling,  so  as  an  example  I  have  given  up  smoking 
myself.' 

"  This,  I  thought,  is  quite  a  new  kind  of  Captain  to 
meet  at  a  regimental  mess,  and  as  the  night  wore  on  this 
impression  was  every  moment  deepened. 

"  The  Captain  talked  of  matters  seldom  heard  of  in  such 
a  place.  The  condition,  the  sufferings,  the  hopes  of  his 
country.  '  Across  the  Irish  path,'  he  said,  '  there  were 
three  great  giants,  three  Goliaths  of  Gath.  The  licensing 
question,  which  in  its  present  state  is  poisoning  rural  Ireland 
by  the  wholesale  multiplication  of  public-houses  ;  the  land 
question,  which  has  filled  Ireland  with  tears  of  blood  ;  the 
condition  of  University  education,  a  last  relic  of  the  bad  old 
times  of  religious  feud  and  intolerance.' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  they  are  three  Goliaths,  but  where  is 
David  the  son  of  Jesse  ?  ' 

"  '  Upon  my  word/  he  said, '  I  sometimes  think  I  will  have 
a  try  at  them  myself.' 


256     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  My  eye  caught  that  of  an  officer  at  the  other  side  of  the 
table  who  had  heard  some  of  the  conversation.  Our  mutual 
glance  had  a  plain  meaning.  Turned  into  plain  English 
it  was  '  amiable  dreamer.' 

"  In  due  course  the  regiment  left  Limerick,  and  was  sent 
to  the  war,  where  my  host  was  stricken  with  a  deadly  illness. 
I  heard  that  he  had  come  home  and  recovered  his  health, 
and  then  when  he  was  slipping  from  my  memory  I  began  to 
see  his  name  in  the  papers. 

"  After  a  little  time  I  made  a  strange  discovery.  That 
night  I  had  met  unawares  the  true  Jack  the  Giant  Killer. 
This  young  soldier  was  no  amiable  dreamer,  but  a  man  at  the 
sound  of  whose  trumpet  ancient  wrongs  fell  down.  This 
young  man  was,  indeed,  a  new  David,  the  son  of  Jesse.  At 
the  first  pebble  from  his  scrip — the  summons  to  the  Licens- 
ing Conference  in  Dublin — the  licensing  scandal  fell  to  earth. 
At  the  second — the  summons  to  the  Land  Conference — the 
land  question  was  settled.  A  third  pebble  has  been  hurled 
from  the  sling,  and,  behold,  that  venerable  Goliath,  the 
intolerance  which  refuses  justice  to  Ireland  in  the  matter  of 
Catholic  education,  reels  ominously,  and  may  at  any  moment 
sink  to  the  earth  and  die  among  its  worshippers." 

Yet  Judge  Adams  was  not  so  wrong  after  all,  in  his  first 
impression  of  the  Captain,  embodied  in  that  quotation  from 
Lever.  The  old  Adam  was  not  quite  dead  in  him,  the 
Galway  devil-may-care  recklessness  broke  out  occasionally 
in  the  social  reformer.  The  following  incident  might  have 
found  an  appropriate  place  in  the  adventures  of  Charles 
O'Malley  :— 

Captain  Shaw  Taylor  had  an  intense  admiration  for  his 
cousin  Sir  Hugh  Lane.  Now  it  chanced  that  while  Sir 
Hugh,  with  tireless  energy,  was  getting  together  the  collec- 
tion for  his  gallery,  he  induced  the  then  Prince  of  Wales,  now 
King  George  V,  to  purchase  a  picture  which  was  reputed 
to  be  an  early  example  of  the  great  French  painter  Corot. 
Sir  Hugh  has  rivals  who  would  be  glad  to  catch  him  tripping, 
and  the  rumour  was  industriously  circulated  that  the 
picture  in  question  was  not  a  Corot  at  all,  but  a  copy  of  a 
painting  in  the  Budapest  Gallery.  Nay,  more,  when  Sir 


TWO  MEN  WORTH   KNOWING  257 

Hugh's  collection  found  a  temporary  shelter  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  the  Dublin  Museum  there  was  screwed  up  on 
the  outside  wall,  just  at  the  door  of  the  gallery,  a  huge 
photo  of  the  Budapest  picture  for  the  purpose  of  dis- 
crediting the  Corot  and  disabling  the  artistic  reputation  of 
Sir  Hugh. 

About  this  time  Captain  Shaw  Taylor  got  married.  I 
don't  say  he  married  for  the  express  purpose,  but  he  certainly 
made  his  honeymoon  an  excuse  for  a  visit  to  Budapest. 
There  he  carefully  scrutinized  the  picture  which  had  been 
the  origin  of  the  controversy.  As  an  art  critic  he  was  probably 
as  incompetent  as  myself,  but  he  had  no  difficulty  in  con- 
vincing himself  that  the  picture  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
Corot  approved  of  by  his  cousin. 

Returning  to  Dublin,  he  drove  at  once  to  the  Museum 
with  his  bride  and  a  screwdriver.  Having  installed  his  bride 
in  a  comfortable  seat  he  proceeded  to  unscrew  the  objection- 
able photo.  To  the  inquiring  policeman  in  charge  of  the 
place  he  explained  the  situation  with  an  engaging  frankness 
that  quite  won  his  heart.  The  Corot,  he  assured  him,  was 
absolutely  genuine,  it  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  picture 
which  he  had  just  examined  in  Budapest.  The  photograph 
was  intended  as  an  insult  to  his  cousin  Hugh  Lane,  and  he 
had  therefore  come  to  remove  it.  The  policeman  sym- 
pathized with  his  view  of  the  situation,  and  presently  the 
Captain  drove  off  in  his  cab  with  his  bride,  his  screwdriver 
and  the  objectionable  photograph,  which  he  doubtless 
preserved  as  a  trophy,  even  as  the  wrenched  knocker  is 
preserved  by  the  young  man  about  town. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
DUNLOP  OF  THE  PNEUMATIC  TYRE 

The  boom  of  the  century — A  financial  misfortune — How  I  met  J.  B.  Dunlop 
— Our  friendship — Full,  true  and  particular  account  of  the  Dunlop  tyre 
— Its  trials  and  triumphs — Dunlop  and  Thompson — Invented  and  re- 
invented— Troublesome  visitors — A  lunatic  and  a  heroine. 

A  CURIOUS  chance  brought  me  into  relations  of  close 
JL\.  intimacy  with  the  famous  J.  B.  Dunlop,  the  inventor, 
or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say  the  rediscoverer,  of  the 
pneumatic  tyre. 

I  may  say,  in  passing,  that  the  Dunlop  tyre  is  a  rather 
sore  subject  with  me.  I  believed  in  the  tyre  from  the  first, 
and  when  the  company  was  started  to  exploit  it  with  a 
capital  of  £20,000  in  pound  shares  I  applied  for  a  hundred,, 
But  a  stockbroker  assured  me  it  was  a  wild-cat  company, 
and  a  champion  cyclist  assured  me  that  the  invention  was 
worthless.  The  company  obligingly  allowed  me  to  cancel 
my  application,  and  I  lost,  I  am  afraid  to  think  how  many 
tens  of  thousands  of  pounds  by  the  process.  The  company 
paid  a  hundred  per  cent  dividends  for  many  years,  and  was 
eventually  sold  for  three  millions. 

My  first  interview  with  Mr.  Dunlop  was  connected  with  a 
little  bicycle  invention  of  my  own,  a  combined  lamp  bracket 
and  carrier,  of  which  I  subsequently  sold  the  patent  to 
Messrs.  Brown  and  Son,  London  manufacturers.  At  that 
time  Mr.  Dunlop  was  chairman  of  the  great  Dublin  drapery 
concern,  Todd,  Burns  and  Co.,  of  which  I  happened  to  be  a 
preference  shareholder. 

Some  months  later  I  chanced  to  hear  that  the  company 
was  not  doing  as  well  as  heretofore.  But  as  it  had  paid  eight 
per  cent  on  the  ordinary  shares  for  the  previous  half-year, 
I  was  not  seriously  perturbed  about  my  preference  shares. 
Close  to  the  date  of  the  annual  meeting  I  received  a  number 

258 


DUNLOP  OF  THE  PNEUMATIC  TYRE   259 

of  circulars  attacking  the  directors  and  management,  and 
finally  was  startled  by  the  report  and  statement  of  accounts, 
which  showed  a  heavy  deficit  and  no  interest  on  ordinary 
or  preference  shares.  Then  I  had  another  interview  with 
Mr.  Dunlop,  and  he  convinced  me  that  though  there  had 
been  mismanagement  the  company  was  capable  of  financial 
recovery,  and  that  a  systematic  attempt  was  on  foot  to 
wreck  it.  At  his  suggestion  I  resolved  to  attend  the  meeting 
of  shareholders. 

It  was  the  first  meeting  of  the  kind  I  had  ever  attended, 
it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  put  a  foot  on  the  company's 
premises.  The  shareholders  were  naturally  furious,  and  at 
the  outset  of  the  proceedings  a  motion  was  proposed  to  put 
the  company  into  liquidation.  Then  I  made  the  speech  of 
my  life.  I  took  for  my  text  the  proverb  that  it  is  folly  to  cry 
over  spilt  milk,  and  I  argued  that  it  would  be  still  greater 
folly  to  kill  the  cow  in  revenge.  I  explained  the  financial 
condition  of  the  company,  and  so  completely  carried  the 
meeting  with  me  that  the  liquidation  motion  had  only 
the  proposer  and  seconder  to  support  it,  and  a  vote  of 
thanks  to  the  chairman  and  directors  was  carried  unani- 
mously. 

A  few  days  later  I  had  a  very  courteous  and  pressing 
invitation  to  join  the  board.  After  considerable  hesitation 
I  accepted,  and  remained  a  director  of  Todd,  Burns  and  Co. 
until  I  was  appointed  a  judge.  Never  was  there  a  more 
amicable  board  of  directors.  During  the  whole  time  I  was  a 
member  we  never  put  a  single  question  to  a  division.  I  do 
not  suggest  post  hoc  propter  hoc,  but  it  is  allowable  to 
mention  that  when  I  joined  the  board  the  ordinary  pound 
shares  of  the  company  were  selling  at  a  few  shillings,  and  the 
five  pound  preference  at  two  pounds  ten.  When  I  left  the 
ordinary  and  preference  were  both  at  par. 

I  mention  this  incident  mainly  to  explain  the  intimacy 
that  grew  up  between  myself  and  Mr.  Dunlop,  with  whom 
I  had  many  chats  about  the  great  invention  by  which 
bicycles  were  made  serviceable  and  motors  possible.  Later 
still  the  pneumatic  tyre  was  commandeered  by  the 
aeroplane.  There  is  certainly  no  man  now  living  who  has 


26o     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

contributed  more  to  the  convenience,  comfort  and  innocent 
enjoyment  of  the  world  at  large  than  J.  B.  Dunlop. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  Mr.  Dunlop's  appearance. 
That  broad,  low,  knobby  forehead  and  flowing  beard  are 
familiar  to  the  world.  There  are  more  portraits  of  him 
abroad  than  any  man,  reigning  kings  alone  excepted.  Kings 
have  their  portraits  on  coins  and  postage  stamps;  Mr. 
Dunlop's  face  is  stamped,  and  a  good  likeness  too,  on  every 
Dunlop  tyre  that  is  sold  the  wide  world  over. 

Very  slow  of  speech  is  Mr.  Dunlop,  with  a  genius  for 
natural  science  which  almost  seems  instinctive,  for  he  reads 
few  books.  In  the  course  of  many  conversations  he  told  me 
the  full,  true  and  particular  account  of  the  invention  of 
the  pneumatic  tyre. 

At  the  time  of  the  invention  he  was  practising  as  a 
veterinary  surgeon  in  Belfast,  and  a  little  while  before  he  had 
stamped  out  pleuro-pneumonia  in  his  district,  an  achieve- 
ment of  which  he  is  as  proud  as  he  is  of  his  tyre. 

Mr.  Dunlop  has  often  described  himself  to  me  as  a  man 
with  a  microscope  mind  and  eye  whom  no  trifle  could  escape. 
He  noticed  that  the  solid  rubber  tyres  of  an  old  side-steering 
tricycle  ridden  by  his  little  son  Johnny  cut  deeply  into  the 
soft  ground.  "  What  is  hard  on  the  ground,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  must  be  hard  on  the  rider,"  and  he  set  to  work  to 
find  something  that  would  be  easier  for  both. 

He  resents  the  common  rumour  that  the  pneumatic  tyre 
was  invented  solely  for  the  comfort  of  a  delicate  boy.  His 
son,  he  declares,  was  never  delicate,  and  he  emphatically 
denies  the  imputation  that,  intending  only  to  diminish 
vibration,  he  discovered  speed  by  accident.  From  the 
first,  he  declares,  he  knew  that  the  two  things  must  go 
together. 

What  he  wanted  was  a  broader,  lighter  and  more  elastic 
tyre  than  rubber,  a  tyre  that  would  glide  with  less  friction 
over  the  ground  and  involve  less  effort  for  the  rider.  After 
careful  thought  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  compressed 
air  was  the  only  material  that  would  answer  the  desired 
conditions. 

All  the  same,  his  son  was  the  direct  cause  of  the  invention. 


DUNLOP  OF  THE  PNEUMATIC  TYRE   261 

He  chanced  to  say  to  his  boy,  "  Some  day,  when  I  have  time, 
I  will  make  you  wheels  that  will  go  faster  than  any  bicycle 
in  town." 

That  settled  it.  In  season  and  out  of  season  the  boy  insisted 
on  the  promise,  and  Mr.  Dunlop,  though  a  very  busy  man, 
had  to  make  or  find  time  to  redeem  it. 

"  It  was  a  very  primitive  beginning,"  he  told  me.  "  I 
cut  a  square  piece  from  a  broad  plank,  knocked  off  the 
corners  and  rounded  it  to  a  wheel.  I  was,  fortunately, 
accustomed  before  this  to  work  in  rubber.  I  always  made 
my  own  rubber  gloves  and  any  other  little  instrument 
required  in  my  profession.  In  constructing  the  first 
pneumatic  tyre  I  had  to  make  everything  I  needed.  There 
was  no  tube  to  be  bought  of  the  kind  I  wanted,  so 
I  made  one  for  myself  with  a  thin  sheet  of  rubber  and  an 
adhesive  solution.  This  I  wound  round  my  wooden  wheel, 
sticking  on  a  bit  of  the  tubing  of  a  baby's  feeding-bottle  for 
a  valve.  But  if  I  had  tried  to  inflate  this  unprotected  tube 
it  would  have  swelled  like  a  bladder  until  it  burst.  I 
needed  an  outer  covering.  My  wife  provided  me  with  a 
strip  of  an  old  grey  linen  dress,  which  was  exactly  what  I 
wanted.  This  I  passed  over  the  rubber  air  tube  and  tacked 
it  neatly  and  lightly  to  the  sides  of  the  wheel.  Then  I 
blew  it  hard  with  an  air-pump  and  tied  up  the  valve.  So  the 
very  first  Dunlop  pneumatic  tyre  was  complete. 

"  The  test  was  as  primitive  as  the  wheel.  I  arranged  a 
trial  gallop  in  my  own  back  yard,  with  only  stablemen  for 
spectators.  Taking  off  the  front  wheel  of  my  boy's  tricycle, 
I  rolled  it  with  all  my  force  down  the  yard.  It  ran  about 
three-quarters  of  the  distance  before  it  tottered  and  fell. 
At  the  first  trial  the  pneumatic  bolted  off  the  course  and 
dashed  with  great  force  into  a  wall.  But  at  the  second  trial 
it  ran  straight  and  fast  the  whole  length  of  the  yard,  struck 
the  wall  at  the  other  end  and  came  back  nearly  half-way  to 
the  starting-point.  The  stablemen  declared  that  it  went  of 
its  own  accord,  and  that  the  further  it  went  the  faster  it  ran. 

"  It  is  easy  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Dunlop,  "  that  there 
was  much  to  be  done  before  the  pneumatic  tyre  could  be 
made  serviceable.  My  son  Johnny  had  the  first  pneumatic- 


262      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

tyred  tricycle  ever  made,  a  model  which  we  still  preserve. 
The  ease  and  speed  with  which  he  rode  naturally  attracted 
attention,  and  by  degrees  I  contrived  to  fit  the  wheels  to  a 
bicycle.  Everything  I  needed  was  still  to  be  made  with  my 
own  hands,  and  I  had  to  invent  all  the  accessories  as  I  went 
along,  including  a  valve,  which  in  principle  is  the  same  as 
that  in  use  to  the  present  day  on  bicycle  and  motor. 

"  But  if  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  invent  and  construct  the 
pneumatic  tyre,  it  was  a  harder  thing  still  to  get  people  to 
ride  it,  and  hardest  of  all  to  get  them  to  buy  it." 

At  last,  by  dint  of  untiring  patience,  Mr.  Dunlop  secured 
a  public  trial  for  his  great  invention.  The  Belfast  College 
sports  in  1889  was  the  turning-point  in  the  career  of  the 
pneumatic  tyre.  The  chief  event  of  the  day  was  a  mile 
bicycle  race,  for  which  the  prize  was  a  superb  gold  watch 
presented  by  Sir  William  Wallace. 

The  event  brought  cycling  champions  together  from  all 
parts  of  the  three  kingdoms.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that 
amongst  the  competitors  in  this  contest  were  young  Arthur 
Du  Cros,  then  Irish  champion,  and  his  brothers  Alfred  and 
Harvey,  junior,  and  amongst  the  spectators  was  Harvey 
Du  Cros,  the  chief  promoter  and  present  chairman  of  the 
Dunlop  Company. 

A  young  Belfast  cyclist,  Bill  Hume,  had  also  entered  for 
the  contest,  and  had  agreed  for  a  consideration  to  ride  a 
bicycle  fitted  with  pneumatic  tyres.  He  was  regarded  as 
an  absolute  outsider  for  the  race. 

Mr.  Dunlop  has  frequently,  in  his  own  deliberate  fashion, 
described  to  me  that  memorable  event. 

No  man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,  still  less  in  his 
own  city,  and  poor  Bill  Hume  was  greeted  with  a  storm  of 
good-humoured  chaff  when  he  appeared  on  his  ungainly 
machine  with  the  "  rag  and  rubber  tyres,"  as  they  were 
contemptuously  nicknamed.  "  I  was  a  bit  ashamed  of  them 
myself,"  Mr.  Dunlop  confessed,  "  they  looked  so  clumsy 
beside  the  neat  rubber,  and  I  hid  myself  away  with  Johnny 
at  the  back  of  the  crowd." 

The  race  was  four  laps,  and  for  the  first  lap  Bill  Hume 
kept  discreetly  in  the  rear.  The  laughter  followed  him  all 


DUNLOP  OF  THE  PNEUMATIC  TYRE   263 

round  the  course.  "  Go  it,  old  mud  cart  !  "  echoed  from  the 
crowd  as  he  went  by.  "  No  wonder  he's  slow,"  shouted  a 
voice,  "  sure,  his  mare  is  in  foal." 

But  when  Bill  Hume  in  the  second  round  began  to  creep 
up  through  the  competitors,  ridicule  gradually  gave  place  to 
amazement.  When  the  third  round  was  reached  only  the 
two  Du  Cros  were  in  front  of  him.  The  bell  rang  for  the  last 
lap,  and  he  closed  up  on  the  leaders.  Then  surprise  gave 
place  to  excitement  and  excitement  to  enthusiasm.  Two 
hundred  yards  from  home,  with  a  wonderful  spurt,  Hume 
reached  and  passed  the  leaders  one  after  another  as  if  they 
were  standing  still,  and  won  by  sixty  yards,  amid  such 
thunders  of  applause  as  were  never  heard  on  the  college 
grounds  before  or  since. 

"  He  has  a  devil  bottled  up  in  those  tyres,"  was  the 
comment  of  a  bookmaker  who  lost  heavily  on  the  event. 
There  were  four  other  bicycle  contests  that  day,  and  Bill 
Hume  on  his  "  rag  and  rubber  "  tyres  won  them  all. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  trace  the  further  history  and 
triumphs  of  the  pneumatic  tyre  as  narrated  to  me  in  detail 
by  Mr.  Dunlop  ;  but  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  not  until 
long  afterwards,  when  his  tyre  had  become  world-famous, 
that  either  bicycle  or  tricycle  was  ridden  by  the  inventor. 

Long  after  the  Dunlop  Company  was  floated  came  the 
startling  discovery  of  a  previous  invention  of  a  pneumatic 
tyre.  In  point  of  fact,  there  never  was  a  valid  patent  for  the 
Dunlop  pneumatic  tyre :  anyone  that  chose  could  make 
and  sell  it,  asking  no  leave,  paying  no  royalty. 

Here  surely  is  the  most  astounding  part  of  this  astounding 
story.  It  was  strange  enough  that  any  one  man  should  have 
thought  of  running  vehicles  on  wheels  of  compressed  air,  it 
is  almost  incredible  that  two  men  should  independently  hit 
on  the  same  idea. 

Thompson  was  the  name  of  the  unappreciated  genius  who 
lived  thirty  years  before  his  time,  and  who,  like  the  second 
inventor  of  the  pneumatic  tyre,  was  a  Scotchman.  Mr. 
Dunlop  might  well  have  exclaimed  :  "  Cursed  be  they  who 
think  our  thoughts  before  us ! "  for  Thompson's  invention 
spoiled  the  Dunlop  patent. 


264     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

If  he  had  been  more  detailed  in  his  specifications,  Mr. 
Dunlop  believes  that  he  would  have  secured  a  valid  patent. 
But  how  was  he  to  guess  that  another  man  had  been  there 
before  ?  Huge  as  was  the  financial  success  of  the  Dunlop 
tyre,  it  would  have  been  multiplied  a  hundredfold  if  the 
monopoly  for  a  pneumatic  tyre  could  have  been  secured. 
"  If  my  patent  was  valid,"  said  Mr.  Dunlop,  "  we  would  have 
earned  money  enough  to  pay  the  National  Debt." 

More  than  once  Mr.  Dunlop  has  expressed  to  me  his  bitter 
disappointment  that  Ireland  has  profited  so  little  by  the 
invention.  The  intention  of  the  company  was  to  keep  the 
manufacture  of  its  tyres  in  Dublin,  but  their  good  intention 
was  defeated  by  the  Dublin  Corporation. 

A  disagreeable,  though  not  unwholesome,  smell  was 
created  by  the  necessary  smearing  of  the  tubing  with  a 
solution  of  rubber  dissolved  in  naphtha.  The  Dublin  Corpora- 
tion prosecuted  the  company  for  creating  a  nuisance.  The 
company  won,  but  the  Corporation  threatened  an  appeal. 
As  a  result  the  manufactory  was  shifted  to  Coventry,  and 
the  gigantic  industry  was  lost  for  ever  to  the  Irish 
metropolis. 

It  was  the  inevitable  penalty  of  Mr.  Dunlop's  success  and 
reputation  that  he  should  be  plagued  for  advice  and  assist- 
ance by  a  myriad  of  inventors  in  varying  stages  of  insanity. 
One  instance  perhaps  deserves  mention  in  the  briefest 
possible  outline. 

Some  time  ago  he  got  a  letter  with  a  Rotterdam  postmark 
on  the  envelope,  in  which  the  writer  claimed  to  be  the  joint 
inventor  of  the  pneumatic  tyre.  As  he  had  never  been  to 
Rotterdam  in  his  life  and  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  the 
claimant,  Mr.  Dunlop  paid  no  heed  to  the  letter.  It  was 
followed  by  a  personal  visit,  in  which  the  claim  was  elo- 
quently albeit  incoherently  urged.  Both  he  and  his  son 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  visitor  whom  they  bowed 
politely  to  the  door  was  mad.  They  were  right  in  that ;  they 
were  wrong  in  thinking  that  they  would  see  or  hear  no  more 
of  him. 

Some  days  later,  as  Mr.  Dunlop  returned  from  Dublin, 
heated  by  a  bicycle  ride  in  the  hot  sunshine,  he  was  met  on 


DUNLOP  OF  THE  PNEUMATIC  TYRE   265 

his  way  to  the  bathroom  by  his  wife  with  the  news  that  the 
mad  claimant  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  dining-room.  The 
man  looked  excited,  she  noticed,  and  both  his  pockets  were 
dragged  down  as  by  some  heavy  weight. 

Mrs.  Dunlop  has  long  been  in  very  fragile  health,  but,  as 
the  event  shows,  she  has  the  courage  of  a  lioness,  or  to  put 
it  more  strongly  still,  of  a  true  woman  when  those  she  loves 
are  in  danger. 

"  I  will  keep  the  man  engaged,"  she  said  to  her  husband, 
"  while  you  go  for  the  police." 

"  First,"  Mr.  Dunlop  urged,  "  get  him  to  put  his  claim  in 
writing."  He  hoped  by  the  device  to  engage  the  madman's 
time  and  attention  until  he  should  have  completed  the 
arrangements  for  his  entertainment. 

But  the  lunatic  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He  promptly 
handed  over  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  an  elaborate  document  ready 
written. 

The  husband  and  wife  read  it  together  outside  the  door, 
and  quickly  lit  on  the  threat  that  he  would  "  enforce  his 
claim  at  the  point  of  the  pistol." 

Thereupon,  without  more  ado,  Mrs.  Dunlop  dispatched  her 
husband  on  his  bicycle  for  the  police,  while  she  went  back 
to  entertain  the  armed  lunatic  in  the  dining-room. 

"  Mr.  Dunlop  would  be  in  presently,"  she  explained. 
She  was  sorry  to  keep  him  waiting.  Would  he  not  take  a 
chair  ?  She  offered  him  the  deepest,  softest,  most  luxurious 
arm-chair  in  the  room,  and  he  sank  down  among  the  cushions. 

The  lunatic  grew  restless,  and  she  soothed  him  with 
plausible  apologies  for  her  husband's  absence.  Once,  while 
she  stood  by  the  window  that  looked  out  on  the  road,  she 
saw  a  policeman  go  slowly  by.  The  temptation  was  strong 
to  beckon  him  to  her  aid.  But  measuring  the  policeman 
with  her  eye,  she  found  him  shorter,  smaller  and  slighter 
than  the  gaunt  madman  that  sat  watchful  in  the  arm-chair. 
Moreover,  caution  whispered  that  even  the  beckoning 
motion  of  her  hand  might  wake  the  quick  suspicion  and  the 
deadly  fury  of  insanity. 

So  she  let  the  long  moments  of  agonized  expectancy  go 
by  until  after  hours,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  minutes  as  the  clock 


266     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

counts  time,  her  husband  returned  with  four  stalwart 
policemen.  It  was  Mrs.  Dunlop  that  ushered  them  into  the 
dining-room,  covering  their  advance. 

"  Here  are  some  gentlemen  to  see  you,  sir,"  she  said. 
"  No,  not  Mr.  Dunlop,"  she  explained,  with  a  touch  of  grim 
humour,  as  moving  aside  she  revealed  the  uniformed  visitors. 

He  would  have  leaped  upon  them  instantly,  but  he  had 
sunk  low  in  the  cushions  and  could  not  readily  find  his  feet, 
and  in  a  moment  the  compelling  hand  of  the  sergeant  was 
on  his  shoulder. 

'  You  have  some  claim  on  Mr.  Dunlop  ? "  the  sergeant 
inquired  blandly. 

"  Claim  ?  "  he  puzzled  out  the  word  in  a  pocket  dictionary 
he  carried  with  him  to  assist  conversation.  "  Yes,  claim," 
he  assented. 

"  And  you  mean  to  enforce  it  at  the  pistol  point  ?  " 

At  this  the  madman's  right  hand  dived  into  the  bulging 
pocket,  perhaps  to  give  practical  illustration.  But  the 
sergeant's  grip  went  down  like  a  flash  from  his  shoulder  to  his 
wrist  and  held  it  tight. 

Then  from  his  right-hand  pocket  the  police  drew  forth 
two  huge  six-chambered  revolvers,  fully  loaded,  and  from 
his  left  a  hundred  rounds  of  ammunition.  In  a  belt  under 
his  coat  was  stuck  a  dagger  with  a  keen-edged  blade  eleven 
inches  long. 

When  these  pretty  instruments  were  piled  together  on 
the  dining-room  table  and  the  handcuffs  clicked  on  the  wrist 
of  the  owner,  Mr.  Dunlop  could  appreciate  from  what  peril 
he  had  been  rescued  by  the  heroism  of  his  wife. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  comparatively  commonplace.  It 
tells  of  a  trial,  a  conviction  and  a  lunatic  asylum.  The 
moral  of  the  tale  suggests  that  kings  and  presidents  are  not 
the  only  folk  on  whom  greatness  brings  trouble.  The  man 
that  is  lifted  above  his  fellows  by  birth  or  brains  is  always 
in  danger  of  being  made  a  cockshot  for  malice  or  madness. 
But  I  think  I  am  safe  in  saying  that  the  only  man  that 
ever  wanted  to  do  J.  B.  Dunlop  an  ill  turn  is  at  present  in 
a  lunatic  asylum. 

Some  months  later  he  received  the  following  strange 


DUNLOP  OF  THE  PNEUMATIC  TYRE   267 

epistle ;    but  he  has  not  yet  made  his  importunate  visitor 
free  to  resume  business  relations. 

"  THE  CENTRAL  ASYLUM, 

"  DUNDRUM,  Co.  DUBLIN, 

"  Day  of  i  February,  1901. 
"  Letter  from  patient :   Th.  Prost. 
"  To  :    Mr.  John  Boyd  Dunlop. 
"  Address  :   Aylesbury  Road,  Donny brook,  Dublin. 

"  Villa  Thareldaene. 

"  Gentleman  ! 

"  With  this  I  would  ask  you  most  kindly  if  you  can 
not  make  me  free  from  prison,  while  I  would  have  my 
liberty  again,  under  those  circumstances  you  may  not 
refuse  it  me.  As  I  have  heard  here,  I  am  now  several  months 
in  prison  and  which  the  question  has  not  been  so  great  that 
I  shall  must  stay  here  whole  my  life,  so  I  hope.  While  you 
have  promised  me  much  money  in  being  free,  I  hope  you 
will  think  once  good  over  both  things  on  me.  As  you  have 
acknowledged  me  a  great  part  of  the  invention  has  belonged 
to  me  we  can  be  than  both  content  and  would  go  directly 
at  home  by  possibility,  while  it  can  become  here  too  f aticant 
for  me  in  having  broken  ribs  and  having  been  heavy  sick. 
You  shall  well  excuse  my  last  visit  content  over  it.  I  had 
spoke  off  with  your  son  that  we  should  go  together  to  the 
police  and  therefore  I  was  surprised,  but  I  hope  to  be  quite 
better  when  I  can  go  at  home.  By  possibility  I  shall  make 
you  then  no  visit  more,  and  hope  in  following  times  the 
business  shall  go  as  desired  and  no  quarrelling  shall  have 
more  place.  With  that  I  hope  to  receive  soon  some  response 
and  have  the  pleasure  to  call  me 

"  Respectfully, 

"  TH.  PROST." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

JUSTIN  MCCARTHY 

Pleasant  recollections — A  visit  to  a  veteran — Justin  McCarthy  in  exile — 
It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good — With  our  toes  on  the  fender 
— A  good  talk — The  man  with  many  friends — Glimpses  of  the  past — 
A  picture  gallery  of  celebrities — All  the  great  men  of  his  generation — 
A  delightful  literary  commission — An  amusing  incident — Justin's 
candour — An  ardent  Home  Ruler. 

AS  I  have  elsewhere  written,  there  were  none  of  my 
JlA.  parliamentary  colleagues  with  whom  I  was  more 
intimate  than  Justin  McCarthy.  He  lingered  on  in  the 
House  for  some  time  after  I  left  it.  In  March,  1896,  I  wrote 
to  him  with  regard  to  some  literary  project  we  had  on  foot 
in  connection  with  the  Freeman's  Journal,  and  received  the 
following  reply  : — 

"  73,  EATON  TERRACE,  S.W., 

"March  ijth,  1896. 
"  MY  DEAR  MATT, 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  the  information  you 
give  me  concerning  the  literary  project  of  the  Freeman's 
Journal.  I  hope  it  may  come  to  something,  and  I  do  not 
see  why  it  should  not  become  a  distinct  success.  There 
must  surely  be  a  literary  public  in  Dublin  who  could  be 
developed  into  appreciation  of  a  really  good  thing,  if  a  good 
thing  were  put  within  their  reach. 

"  But  I  have  to  thank  you  still  more  and  much  more  for 
your  kindly  cordial  expressions  of  friendship  towards  my- 
self. I  shall  always  remember  those  pleasant  little  dinners 
we  used  to  have  so  often  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Now 
you  are  gone  and  Sexton  is  gone,  and  that  particular  table 
where  we  used  to  sit  seems  dismal  when  I  settle  down  |there. 
"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY." 
268 


Photo  by  Elliot  and  Fry,  London. 

JUSTIN  MCCARTHY 


p.  268 


JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  269 

Years  later  business  called  me  to  London,  and  I  received 
an  urgent  invitation  from  my  dear  old  friend  to  visit  him 
at  Westgate-on-Sea,  to  whose  bracing  air  he  had  been  exiled 
by  his  doctor.  The  temptation  to  see  him  again  was  irre- 
sistible. 

An  incident  occurred'on  the  journey  from  London  which 
illustrated  to  my  special  advantage  in  what  universal  respect 
the  genial  literary  veteran  is  held. 

I  got  into  talk  with  a  gentleman  who  was  the  only  other 
occupant  of  the  railway  carriage.  We  discussed  Mr.  Cham- 
berlain, his  views  and  career  and  prospects  from  stand- 
points directly  opposed  and  in  language  as  strong  as  courtesy 
would  allow.  In  the  course  of  our  conversation  I  chanced  to 
mention  that  I  was  going  to  see  Justin  McCarthy  at  West- 
gate-on-Sea, and  he  was  warm  in  praise  of  his  works. 

Now,  personally  I  happen  to  be  the  worst  traveller  in 
the  world.  Wherever  I  go  I  leave  a  trail  of  lost  luggage 
behind  me.  So  it  was  quite  natural  that,  when  the  train 
stopped  at  Westgate-on-Sea  in  the  midst  of  an  interesting 
conversation  and  I  saw  Miss  McCarthy  waiting  for  me  on 
the  platform,  I  should  at  once  jump  out,  leaving  my  bag 
behind  me  in  the  rack.  Two  hours  later  the  bag  came  back 
by  a  special  messenger  from  four  stations  away  with  a 
polite  note  from  my  fellow-traveller  intimating  that  the 
fortunate  mention  of  the  fact  that  I  was  the  guest  of  Justin 
McCarthy  enabled  him  to  restore  it. 

I  found  my  dear  old  friend  as  well  and  as  strong  as^when 
I  parted  from  him  more  than  a  decade  ago  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  his  memory  as  vivid,  his  humour  as  playful,  his 
conversation  as  full  of  freshness  and  savour.  He  was  de- 
lightfully situated  at  Westgate-on-Sea  in  a  corner  villa  with 
a  view  of  the  sea  ;  a  smaller  villa  over  the  way  serves  as  a 
guest-house  for  his  week-end  visitors  from  London.  Now 
and  again,  as  he  told  me,  he  was  stirred  by  an  almost  irre- 
sistible desire  for  a  last  look  on  Ireland.  But  the  doctor 
insisted  on  the  bracing  air  of  Westgate-on-Sea,  and  the 
health  he  enjoyed  there  confirmed  the  doctor's  com- 
mands. 
The  weather  during  my  brief  stay  at  Westgate-on-Sea 


270     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

was  most  propitiously  inclement,  windy  and  wet,  making 
out-of-door  excursions  impossible.  My  kind  friends  were 
distressed,  and  I  was  delighted.  They  had  planned  some 
pleasant  excursions.  I  was  to  see  the  spot  where  King 
Canute  got  himself  wet  to  the  skin  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
buking his  flattering  courtiers,  whom  I  always  thought  had 
the  best  of  that  experiment.  I  was  to  see  the  spot  where 
Julius  Csesar  landed  on  the  British  coast.  Indeed,  Justin 
assured  me  he  had  always  regarded  the  selection  of  this 
particular  spot  by  the  famous  invader  as  a  delicate  antici- 
patory compliment  to  himself. 

All  these  things  I  was  to  see,  and  didn't  see  and  couldn't 
see,  and  much  rejoiced  thereat.  I  had  come  to  visit,  not 
Westgate-on-Sea,  but  Justin  McCarthy,  and  the  weather 
kindly  decreed  that  I  was  to  have  him  all  to  myself  during 
the  visit. 

We  went  to  Mass  together  in  the  morning  in  a  covered 
vehicle,  and  left  the  house  no  more  that  day,  but  sat  to- 
gether in  his  cosy  den,  book  and  picture  lined,  our  toes  on 
the  fender,  and  talked  unheeded  hours  away.  Truly  such 
talk  was  a  rare  treat.  It  was  the  cream  of  a  busy,  useful, 
happy  life,  stretching  back  almost  to  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  of  the 
time. 

There  was  no  taint  of  personal  vanity  or  personal  bitter- 
ness in  his  reminiscences.  His  mind,  to  my  thinking,  was 
as  incapable  of  harbouring  an  unworthy  thought  as  the  soil 
of  Ireland  is  of  harbouring  a  snake.  He  had  in  his  time  met 
everyone  worth  meeting  and  seen  everything  worth  seeing 
in  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 

What  a  list  it  was  of  his  personal  acquaintances  and 
friends  !  In  politics  there  were  Lord  John  Russell,  Cobden, 
Bright,  Gladstone,  Disraeli  and  Bismarck ;  in  literature, 
Browning,  Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Thackeray,  Dickens, 
George  Eliot,  John  Stuart  Mill  and  a  host  of  others.  For 
this  list  makes  no  pretension  to  be  complete.  I  have  merely 
set  out  at  random  the  names  that  cropped  up  in  the  course 
of  our  conversation,  and  now  I  bethink  myself  that  the 
category  omits  such  literary  giants  as  Lowell,  Emerson, 


JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  271 

Longfellow,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  with  all  of  whom  he 
was  on  terms  of  familiar  friendship. 

It  was  pleasant  for  one  who  had  read  and  worshipped 
from  afar  off  to  meet  those  great  men  almost  at  first  hand, 
to  be  introduced  by  one  who  knew  them  so  well ;  but  it  is 
a  pleasure  not  to  be  passed  on  to  the  reader.  It  would  be 
quite  impossible  to  convey  in  written  words  the  savour  of 
our  familiar  talk.  It  is  the  slight  touch  that  completes  the 
picture.  I  knew  these  men  better  from  some  passing  phrase, 
some  familiar  incident,  told  by  one  who  saw  and  heard, 
than  I  had  known  them  in  elaborate  biography. 

Justin  McCarthy  was  naturally  full  of  admiration  for 
Gladstone,  with  whom  he  had  been  brought  into  specially 
close  relations  in  the  Home  Rule  Parliament,  when  they  led 
the  allied  forces  of  the  composite  majority  which  carried  the 
Bill.  He  admired,  as  all  must  admire,  the  splendid  biography 
of  Mr.  Morley  ;  but  he  seemed  to  feel,  as  I  myself  have  felt, 
that  it  was  emphatically  "  Morley's  Gladstone,"  not  Bos- 
well's,  the  story  of 

A  creature  far  too  pure  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food. 

For  my  own  poor  part,  I  should  have  liked  to  see  that 
stately  portrait  supplemented  by  a  genial,  eminently  human 
sketch  by  Justin  McCarthy  himself. 

Of  John  Bright  he  had  much  to  tell.  He  considered  him 
at  his  best  a  greater  orator  even  than  Gladstone.  "  He  shot 
his  arrow  higher,"  was  his  phrase.  Justin  McCarthy's 
editorship  of  a  Liberal  London  newspaper  brought  him  into 
frequent  and  friendly  communication  with  John  Bright,  who 
held  a  place  on  the  advisory  board.  In  those  days  John 
Blight's  sympathy  with  Ireland  was  intense.  Even  the 
violence  of  the  Fenians  did  not  in  the  least  affect  it.  The 
most  sympathetic  of  Irish  editors  was  not  strong  enough 
for  this  English  enthusiast. 

"  We  have  to  consider  the  feelings  of  our  readers  and  the 
interests  of  the  paper,"  explained  Justin  McCarthy. 

"  We  have,  first  of  all,  to  consider  the  interests  of  truth 
and  justice,"  retorted  John  Bright. 

John  Stuart  Mill,  of  whom  he  had  many  charming  things 


272     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

to  tell,  was  not  less  earnest  than  John  Bright  in  his  Irish 
sympathies.  I  had  a  wonderful  picture  of  this  shy,  retiring 
scholar  and  philosopher  taking  active  part  in  a  boisterous 
demonstration  in  favour  of  amnesty  for  Irish  political 
prisoners. 

Tennyson,  Justin  McCarthy  found  a  little  stiff  and  self- 
conscious  of  his  own  genius — 

As  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes. 

But  Browning,  whom  he  knew  more  intimately,  he  described 
as  the  most  unostentatious  and  charming  of  companions, 
full  of  human  sympathy  and  sprightly  humour.  In  Brown- 
ing's everyday  talk  I  learned  there  was  no  touch  of  the 
verbal  obscurity  that  is  such  a  stumbling-block  to  the 
uninitiated,  myself  among  the  number. 

Justin  McCarthy's  first  meeting  with  Bismarck  was 
specially  memorable  to  him  by  reason  of  the  unavailing 
toil  with  which  he  furbished  up  his  German  for  the  ordeal. 

To  his  surprise  and  delight,  Bismarck,  speaking  in  ex- 
cellent English,  bade  him  talk  in  that  language,  if  he  had 
no  objection. 

"  I  am  very  proud,"  the  great  German  said,  "  of  the 
extent  and  variety  of  my  English.  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
could  interchange  slang  with  a  London  cabman." 

In  America  Justin  McCarthy's  experiences  were  as  varied 
and  as  agreeable  as  at  home.  He  told  me  that  on  one 
occasion  he  was  able  to  confound  a  Yankee  who  was  boast- 
ing somewhat  arrogantly  of  his  knowledge  of  the  States  by 
the  quiet  intimation  that  he,  an  Irishman,  had  travelled 
through  and  through  every  State  in  the  country,  and  had 
visited  almost  every  great  town  to  be  found  on  their 
maps. 

The  Yankee  guessed  that  "  left  him  standing." 

One  American  literary  experience  Justin  McCarthy  had 
was  as  delightful  as  can  well  be  imagined. 

On  his  first  trip  to  New  York  he  submitted  "  a  longish 
short  story  "  for  publication  to  Harper's  Magazine,  and  was 
gratified  not  merely  by  a  notification  of  the  acceptance  of 
the  story  with  a  handsome  accompanying  cheque,  but  by 


JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  273 

the  further  intimation  that  the  editor  would  be  glad  if  he 
could  make  it  convenient  to  call  at  the  office. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  made  it  convenient  to  call. 
What  young  author  could  resist  so  flattering  and  so  pro- 
mising an  invitation  ?  " 

The  conversation  opened  with  a  compliment.  The  editor 
was  delighted  with  the  story.  Did  the  author  think  he 
could  let  him  have  some  more  about  the  same  length  on 
commission  ?  " 

The  author  rather  thought  he  could.  About  how  many 
did  the  editor  require  ? 

"  Shall  we  say  about  a  hundred  ?  "  replied  the  editor. 

"  You  may  imagine  my  amazement  and  delight,"  said 
Justin  McCarthy,  rejoicing  in  the  retrospect  of  that 
magnificent  piece  of  good  fortune. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  splendid  commission,  and  it  worked 
itself  out  magnificently  to  the  last  word  of  the  hundred 
stories  and  the  last  dollar  of  the  hundred  cheques. 

A  scribbler  of  fiction  myself  in  a  small  way,  I  declare  I 
can  imagine  no  more  fascinating  experience  for  an  author. 

Justin  McCarthy  wandered  at  his  own  sweet  will  through 
the  wide  and  variegated  regions  of  the  United  States, 
moving  where  he  liked,  staying  where  he  liked,  idling  when 
he  liked  and  working  when  he  liked,  finding  in  his  wander- 
ings and  idlings  the  local  colour  for  the  hundred  stories, 
whose  price  far  overpaid  the  expenses  of  the  unexampled 
holiday.  I  had  myself  a  vicarious  delight  in  listening  to  so 
delightful  an  experience. 

So  it  chanced  that  Justin  McCarthy  made  friends  in 
America  as  many  and  as  distinguished  as  at  home. 

As  our  day  slid  by  in  desultory  and  delightful  gossip, 
whose  even  flow  never  halted  or  lagged,  the  signed  photos 
on  the  walls,  the  signed  books  on  the  shelves  or  tables,  were 
fertile  in  reminiscences. 

Just  one  illustration,  and  I  have  done.  In  a  conspicuous 
place  over  the  chimneypiece  I  noticed  a  portrait  of  an  old 
lady  in  whose  face  sweetness  and  dignity  were  wonderfully 
combined.  She  was,  I  learned,  the  wife  of  Lord  John  Russell, 
who  was  a  very  special  friend  of  Justin  McCarthy's,  and  had 


274     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

sent  him  this  portrait  with  a  warm  expression  of  regard  a 
little  before  her  death.  Our  talk  naturally  switched  on 
from  her  to  Lord  John  Russell,  whom  Justin  McCarthy  knew 
well,  and  so  we  were  carried  back  to  the  days  of  the  great 
Napoleon,  for  Lord  John  Russell  knew  Napoleon,  and  as  a 
young  man  visited  him  at  Elba. 

On  that  occasion,  as  Lord  John  afterwards  told  Justin 
McCarthy,  Napoleon  bade  the  English  people  beware  of 
Wellington. 

"  A  few  more  victories,"  he  said,  "  and  Wellington  will 
grow  so  popular  with  the  army  that  he  will  seize  the  crown." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Lord  John  strove  to  explain  that  the 
British  Constitution  rendered  such  a  thing  impossible. 

Napoleon  merely  smiled  and  shook  his  head  as  one  that 
knew  better. 

While  we  talked  there  came  to  our  ears  the  faint  patter 
of  a  typewriter  from  an  adjacent  room,  where  Justin 
Huntly  McCarthy  was  busy  translating  into  drama  his 
charming  novel  "  The  Dryad."  At  dinner-time  he  told 
us  triumphantly  that  he  had  completed  an  act  and  a  bit 
over  while  we  had  idled  through  the  day  with  our  feet 
on  the  fender. 

But  be  it  not  thought  that  Justin  McCarthy  habitually 
dawdled.  He  lived  his  life  out  to  the  last  as  vigorous  in 
work  and  enjoyments  as  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  Almost 
to  the  last  he  partook  of  the  mild  dissipations  of  Westgate- 
on-Sea,  which,  by  the  way,  regards  itself  as  a  "  genteel 
watering-place,"  by  no  means  to  be  confounded  with  neigh- 
bouring Margate. 

One  story  he  told  me  as  illustrating  the  courtesy  of  the 
locality,  and  possibly  its  lack  of  humour. 

A  lady  spoke  in  strong  condemnation  of  society  fibs.  She 
was  specially  hard  on  her  own  sex  for  their  lack  of  candour 
in  regard  to  their  age. 

Justin  McCarthy  cordially  agreed,  and  gave  a  personal 
illustration.  To  appreciate  this  personal  allusion  it  must  be 
remembered  that  he  was  nearer  to  five  feet  in  height  than  six. 

"  I  quite  concur  with  you,  madam,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  I  never  practise  those  subterfuges  myself.  I  never  deny 


JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  275 

that  I  am  over  forty  years  of  age,  and  never  pretend  to  be 
more  than  five  feet  eleven  and  a  half  inches  in  height." 

She  looked  at  him  in  mild  amazement.  Politeness  forbade 
further  reference  to  the  question  of  age. 

"  I  should  never  have  thought,  Mr.  McCarthy,"  she  said 
meekly,  "  that  you  were  quite  five  feet  eleven  and  a  half 
unless  you  told  me  so  yourself." 

But,  of  course,  his  chief  resource  and  enjoyment  in  his 
enforced  retirement  were  his  beloved  books.  His  son  and 
daughter  fortunately  shared  his  taste.  They  were  a  literary 
triumvirate  who  in  writing  and  reading  found  their  chief 
enjoyment.  Of  Justin  Huntly  McCarthy's  triumphs  in 
fiction  and  the  drama  there  is  no  need  to  speak.  Miss 
McCarthy  has  made  on  her  own  account  but  one  incursion 
into  print — a  charming  sketch  of  Parnell.  But  she  may  be 
said,  in  a  sense,  to  have  collaborated  with  her  father  in  all 
his  later  works. 

For  there  fell  on  him  in  his  old  age  one  of  the  sorest  trials 
of  a  literary  man.  His  eyesight  grew  so  weak  that  both 
reading  and  writing  were  strictly  forbidden. 

His  daughter's  unremitting  kindness,  he  assured  me, 
smoothed  away  even  this  misfortune.  She  read  to  him, 
hunted  up  his  references  and  corrected  his  proofs.  Her 
father  was  fervent  in  her  praise.  "  I  could  do  nothing  with- 
out her,"  he  said.  "  She  is  so  quick,  so  patient,  so  fertile 
in  helpful  suggestion." 

The  Irish  exiles  at  Westgate-on-Sea,  all  three,  were  keenly 
alive  to  anything  that  appertains  to  Ireland.  Justin 
McCarthy,  when  I  last  saw  him,  was  as  deeply  interested 
in  the  Home  Rule  Bill,  as  earnest  for  its  success,  as  when 
he  led  the  Irish  party  to  victory  in  the  memorable  session 
when  Home  Rule  received  the  deliberate  sanction,  not  to 
be  forgotten  or  recalled,  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

"  No  reform,"  he  said  to  me  at  parting,  "  that  has  once 
received  the  sanction  of  the  House  of  Commons  has  ulti- 
mately failed  to  become  the  law  of  the  land." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
RANDOM  REVIEWS 

The  book  and  the  author — Jetsam  and  flotsam — Treasure-trove — Authors 
I  have  heard  from — Una  Silberrad — Jane  Barlow — Conan  Doyle — 
Critics  I  have  heard  from — Oliver  Wendell  Holmes — Justin  McCarthy 
— Blowing  my  own  trumpet. 

A  MONGST  the  miscellaneous  duties  of  an  editorial  writer 
jL~\  on  the  Freeman's  Journal  was  the  reviewing  of  books, 
for  which  the  only  remuneration  was  the  possession  of  the 
volume  reviewed.  A  big  bundle  of  books  arrived  weekly 
from  the  London  office,  and  were  dealt  out  among  the 
writers  to  whom  the  work  of  reviewing  was  entrusted.  They 
were  trashy  novels  for  the  most  part,  for  which  there  was 
no  competition  amongst  the  critics.  Fortunately,  it  was 
not  necessary  to  read  them  through.  A  mild  complimentary 
paragraph  could  always  be  contrived  after  a  few  minutes' 
glance  through  the  pages.  Now  and  again  among  this 
jetsam  and  flotsam  of  frivolous  fiction  I  discovered  a  trea- 
sure. Though  our  usual  notice  of  a  novel  by  an  un- 
known writer  was  a  bald  paragraph,  it  was  a  keen  delight 
to  me  when  I  came  across  a  really  good  first  story  to 
try  to  repay  the  pleasure  it  gave  me  by  an  appreciative 
review. 

Among  the  books  I  met  in  this  fashion  amid  a  pile  of 
rubbish  were  Una  Silberrad's  "  Enchanter,"  Mason's 
"  Courtship  of  Morrice  Buckler  "  and  Maurice  Hewlett's 
"  Forest  Lovers."  I,  at  least,  had  never  heard  of  the 
writers  before  the  books  came  to  my  hands  for  review,  and 
it  pleases  me  to  remember  that  I  appreciated  them  at  the 
time. 

Now  and  again,  too,  I  received  a  kindly  letter  from  the 
author  whose  book  I  had  reviewed.  Mr.  Maurice  Hewlett 
was  unduly  grateful  for  my  praise  of  his  "  Forest  Lovers." 

276 


RANDOM   REVIEWS  277 

Miss  Una  L.  Silberrad  wrote  from  Sunnycroft,  Essex,  to 
thank  me  for  my  review  of  "  The  Enchanter." 

"  You  see,"  she  wrote,  "it  is  the  first  long  tale  I  have 
written.  I  began  it  when  I  was  twenty-three,  and  wrote  it 
mostly  on  Sunday  afternoons.  As  a  consequence  it  was  a 
very  long  time  in  writing,  and  got  to  be  somewhat  dis- 
cursive in  style.  I  am  very  glad  indeed  you  overlooked  the 
faults,  and  really  liked  '  The  Enchanter.' 

"  Again  thanking  you, 

"  Believe  me,  faithfully  yours, 

"  UNA  L.  SILBERRAD." 

In  a  subsequent  letter  she  wrote  : — 

"  Many  thanks  for  the  book  you  sent  me.  I  shall  read  it 
with  the. greatest  interest,  and  value  it  always  as  a  sort  of 
token  of  the  kind  welcome  extended  to  an  embryo  author 
by  one  of  wider  experience  and  more  assured  position  in  the 
world.  I  wonder  if  the  public  ever  share  the  writer's  opinion 
of  what  is  his  best  work  ?  I  hope  it  (and  the  publishers) 
will  share  mine  with  regard  to  the  novel  I  have  just  finished 
after  only  eight  months'  work.  I  do  not  know  if  it  is  a 
good  tale  or  a  bad  one,  but  it  could  not  be  other  than  it  is, 
and  there  is  a  character  in  it  whom  it  is  just  a  treat  to  know. 
But  perhaps  one  day  I  will  have  the  pleasure  of  sending 
you  a  copy,  and  you  can  judge  for  yourself. 

"  Again  thanking  you  for  your  great  kindness, 

"  Believe  me,  faithfully  yours, 

"  UNA  L.  SILBERRAD." 

Authors,  like  parents,  often  make  favourite  children  that 
are  not  the  best  of  the  family.  To  my  thinking,  at  least, 
the  second  novel  was  not  equal  to  the  first. 

Miss  Jane  Barlow,  who  understands  and  interprets  the 
Irish  character  more  faithfully  and  more  charmingly  than 
any  writer  I  know,  in  the  following  letter  confesses  to  the 
same  weakness. 

"  DEAR  MR.  BODKIN,"  she  wrote,  "  Many  thanks  for  your 
kind  words  about  the  '  Irish  Idylls.'  I  am  glad  that  you  like 
'  Strangers  at  Lisconnel.'  Perhaps  I  am  inclined  to  favour 


278     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

it  because  it  was,  like  most  sequels,  less  successful  than  the 
earlier  volume ;  so  my  sentiment  is  like  Francis'  towards 
Cordelia :  '  Most  choice  forsaken  and  most  loved  despised.'  " 

How  delicately  she  insinuates  that  she  was  right  in  her 
estimate  !  Cordelia  was  certainly  the  best  of  her  family. 

The  author's  letter  I  value  most  was  one  received  from 
the  great  master  of  fiction,  having  written  about  one  of  his 
stories,  "  A  Duet  with  an  Occasional  Chorus  "  : — 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  I  can  hardly  thank  you  enough  for  your  kindly 
championship.  I  value  it  the  more  because  the  book  has 
been  somewhat  mishandled  by  the  critics.  They  would  not 
judge  it  from  a  point  of  view  of  atmosphere,  but  of  con- 
struction and  incident,  which  is,  as  you  have  observed,  a 
wrong  standpoint. 

"  Your  opinion  helps  me  to  believe  that  I  have  to  some 
extent  done  what  I  set  out  to  do. 
"  Thanking  you  once  again, 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  A.  CONAN  DOYLE." 

At  this  time  I  was  myself  a  humble  writer  of  books.  I 
began  with  a  short  story  contrived  to  fill  a  gap  in  a  Christ- 
mas Number  when  I  was  acting  editor  of  United  Ireland. 
The  result  was,  after  a  little  while,  a  little  volume  entitled 
"  Poteen  Punch  "  appeared.  My  ambition  as  a  story-teller 
was  stimulated  by  the  following  letter  received  a  short  time 
after  the  publication  of  the  book  : — 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  Among  the  heap  of  books  which  I  found  on  my 
table,  after  returning  from  my  summer  residence,  is  one  less 
dreary  in  aspect  than  most  of  the  great  pile.  It  is  '  Poteen 
Punch,'  which  is  a  welcome  relief  from  the  dulness  with 
which  I  have  to  struggle.  Please  accept  my  thanks  for  the 
little  volume  of  pleasant  stories,  and  believe  me, 
"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES." 


RANDOM  REVIEWS  279 

My  first  long  story,  "  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,"  was  not 
merely  published  serially,  but  written  serially  amid  the 
stress  of  other  and  more  urgent  work.  Subsequently  it  was 
revised  and  published  in  book  form  by  Messrs.  Chapman  and 
Hall.  I  was  surprised  and  delighted  at  its  reception  by  the 
critics.  The  publishers'  acting  director,  Mr.  Oswald  Craw- 
ford, described  it  as  "  their  success  of  the  season." 

My  next  novel,  "  White  Magic,"  had  the  unique  distinc- 
tion that  every  line  of  it  was  written  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons in  the  intervals  of  Press  and  parliamentary  labours. 
In  a  column-long  article  the  Daily  Telegraph  unduly  praised 
it,  but  the  public  preferred  the  first. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  run  through  the  score  or  so  of 
books  I  have  written  from  time  to  time.  I  may  mention 
that,  in  my  opinion,  "  A  Stolen  Life  "  is  the  best  of  the  lot, 
and  this  opinion  was,  I  think,  shared  by  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy, 
whose  view  carries  weight. 

"  MY  DEAR  MATT,"  he  wrote  when  the  book  appeared, 
"  I  cannot  criticize  '  A  Stolen  Life.'  It  fairly  carried  me 
away.  I  am  ready  to  believe  in  hypnotism  or  anything  else 
which  is  made  so  real  as  it  is  in  your  book.  I  greatly  admire 
your  hero,  and  I  am  in  love  with  Eva.  I  like  all  the  people, 
indeed,  except  the  villain,  and  he  interests  me  deeply.  The 
book  is  full  of  charming  fancies  and  subtle  thoughts,  and 
some  of  your  descriptions,  such  as  those  in  the  woodland 
and  riverside  scenes,  have  a  refreshing  charm  about  them. 
Indeed,  the  whole  book  gave  me  genuine  delight. 
"  Ever  your  sincere  friend, 

"  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY." 

I  must  confess  that  the  public  and  publishers  preferred 
my  detective  stories,  which  were  translated  into  French, 
German,  Swedish  and  Italian,  and  republished  in  America. 
Indeed,  what  literary  reputation  I  have  obtained  seems  to 
have  been  obtained  in  Sweden,  where  almost  all  my  books 
were  republished,  even  a  book  of  short  Irish  stories,  "  Patsey 
the  Omadawn,"  in  which  the  brogue  is  very  prominent.  It 
hurts  my  vanity  to  be  compelled  to  believe  that  my  popu- 
larity in  Sweden  must  be  due  to  the  excellence  of  the 


280     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

translation  by  Mme.  Ebba  Nordenadler,  whose  knowledge 
of  the  Irish  dialect  and  of  the  English  language  is  certainly 
remarkable.  In  her  very  flattering  proposal  to  translate 
"  Patsey  the  Omadawn  "  she  writes  : — 

"  I  understand  Mr.  Rattigan's  language  perfectly.  It  is 
only  the  word  '  pishogue  '  that  puzzles  me  a  little." 

But  this  book  is  a  record  of  things  seen  and  heard,  and  I 
must  try  to  abstain  from  blowing  my  own  trumpet,  though 
vanity  will  edge  in  a  few  words  sideways  now  and  again. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
BOHEMIA 

Newspaper  office  and  theatre  —  A  generation  of  actors  —  Sothern  —  The 
inimitable  Lord  Dundreary  —  Barry  Sullivan  —  A  splendid  Richelieu 
and  a  wonderful  Surface  —  Contrasted  with  Irving  as  Richard  III  — 
living's  triumphs  —  College  night  in  Dublin. 


theatre  is  an  adjacent  province  to  the  newspaper 
J.  office  in  the  pleasant  kingdom  of  Bohemia.  Front 
door  and  stage  door  are  open  to  the  critic,  and  he  has  a 
welcome  before  the  curtain  and  behind  it.  As  I  have  said 
before,  the  Pressman  does  not  specialize  in  Ireland.  He  is 
what  is  known  in  domestic  service  as  a  "  general,"  a  man- 
of-all-work,  to  whom  nothing  must  come  amiss.  So  it  hap- 
pened that  among  my  multifarious  Press  duties  I  was,  with 
brief  intermission,  for  twenty  years  or  so  the  dramatic  critic 
to  the  principal  newspaper  in  Dublin.  In  this  capacity  I 
came  to  know  more  or  less  intimately  all  the  great  actors 
of  my  time,  on  the  stage  and  off  it. 

One  of  the  earliest  and  pleasantest  of  those  experiences 
was  my  meeting  with  Sothern.  Few  actors  can  wholly 
divest  themselves  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  theatre,  in  which 
the  chief  part  of  their  life  is  spent.  Sothern,  as  I  remember 
him,  was  a  most  glorious  exception  to  this  rule.  He  shifted 
himself  into  and  out  of  his  characters  with  the  most  con- 
summate ease.  On  the  stage  and  off  it  he  was  equally 
natural. 

He  was  in  his  own  person  as  amusing,  as  original,  as 
wholly  delightful  as  Lord  Dundreary,  whom  he  created. 
Moreover,  he  was  the  one  actor  I  ever  met  who  as  a  speaker 
was  wholly  unaffected  and  spontaneous.  His  little  speeches 
to  the  audience,  when  called  before  the  curtain  as  Lord 
Dundreary,  were  as  good  as  anything  in  the  play.  Nor  was 

281 


282     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

it  in  the  least  surprising  to  learn  that  he  had  himself  built 
up  from  the  unstable  foundation  of  a  few  dozen  lines  the 
part  which  he  played  so  inimitably. 

Once  I  remember  asking  him  the  stock  question  which  of 
his  many  characters  he  preferred. 

"  I  enjoy  David  Garrick  most,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  know 
I  play  Lord  Dundreary  best.  If  I  ever  live  in  men's  memory 
after  I  am  gone,  it  will  be  as  Lord  Dundreary.  When 
other  actors  act  the  part,  the  kind  old  playgoers  will  say, 
'  You  should  have  seen  poor  Sothern  in  it.'  " 

Barry  Sullivan  flourished  ("  flourished  "  is  exactly  the 
word)  a  little  before  my  time,  but  he  still  held  the  stage 
gallantly  against  the  younger  generation  who  were  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  and  I  had  many  opportunities  of  seeing  him 
in  many  different  parts.  He  was  an  actor  of  the  old  school, 
with  a  curious  up-and-down  inflexion  in  his  voice,  an  in- 
flexion known  only  to  the  stage.  A  glorified  barn-stormer 
was  Barry  Sullivan,  yet  capable  withal  of  a  force  and 
passion  that  ranked  him  with  great  actors.  I  have  seen 
few  things  finer  of  its  kind  than  magnificent  Barry  as 
Cardinal  Richelieu  when  he  draws  the  sacred  circle  round 
the  trembling  maid  and  threatens  to  "  launch  the  curse  of 
Rome  "  upon  the  head  of  the  terrified  king.  No  wonder 
the  "  gods  "  roared  their  applause. 

How  easily  a  critic  may  be  mistaken  in  an  actor's  apti- 
tudes !  I  remember  Barry  Sullivan  was  billed  for  Charles 
Surface  in  the  "  School  for  Scandal,"  and  I  anticipated,  I 
must  confess,  a  burlesque  performance.  Never  was  a  man 
more  mistaken.  I  went  to  scoff :  I  remained  to  praise. 
Seldom,  if  ever,  have  I  seen  a  more  spirited  performance  of 
the  part — light,  easy,  graceful,  with  a  touch  of  that  devil- 
may-care  recklessness  with  which  Sheridan  (the  greatest 
writer  of  comedies  in  the  language  except  Shakespeare)  has 
endowed  it. 

Barry  Sullivan's  sun  was  setting  when  Henry  Irving's 
was  rising,  and,  naturally,  Sullivan  did  not  like  Irving  and 
affected  to  ignore  him.  Mr.  Grossmith  told  me  that  Sullivan 
could  never  be  got  to  play  with  Irving,  though  often  asked. 

Once,  at  the  Savage  Club,  Barry  Sullivan  said  to  Gros- 


BOHEMIA  283 

smith  :  "I  play  for  the  public,  sir  ;  I  know  nothing  about 
Society.  There  is  a  young  fellow,  I  cannot  think  of  his 
name  for  the  moment — bless  my  soul,  I'll  forget  my  own 
name  next — that  young  fellow  at  the  Lyceum " 

"  Irving,"  suggested  Grossmith. 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  Irving.  Well,  he  has  got  on  wonderfully.  If 
I  had  these  legs  and  went  into  Society,  it  would  increase 
my  reputation." 

"  I  remember  once  an  amusing  incident  in  Barry  Sullivan's 
performance  of  '  Hamlet,'  "  said  Mr.  Grossmith.  "  The 
first  gravedigger  was  a  novice,  and  was  overpowered  at  the 
thought  of  playing  with  the  great  Barry  Sullivan.  '  Whose 
skull  is  that  ?  '  asked  Barry  in  his  deepest  and  most  tragic 
tones.  '  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sir/  the  gravedigger  an- 
swered. '  I  had  it  all  in  my  head  a  moment  ago,  but  it  is 
clean  gone.' 

"  '  Alas  !  poor  Yorick/  said  Barry  Sullivan,  finding  his 
own  cue.  But  the  frightened  gravedigger  did  not  venture 
to  get  out  of  the  grave.  He  fled  under  the  stage,  and  the 
effect  on  the  audience  was  that  Ophelia  was  buried  on  top 
of  him 

There  was,  indeed,  a  startling  contrast  hi  the  methods  of 
the  two  great  actors,  Sullivan  and  Irving.  It  struck  me 
most,  I  remember,  in  the  love  scene  between  Richard  III 
and  Anne  at  her  husband's  funeral.  As  interpreted  by 
Barry  Sullivan,  the  scene  was  broad  farce.  His  courtship 
was  extravagant  beyond  the  verge  of  absurdity.  He  leered 
at  the  mourning  lady  triumphantly  as  he  spoke  his  asides 
to  the  audience,  who  responded  with  yells  of  delighted 
laughter. 

The  approving  cry  of  one  of  his  admirers  in  the  gallery, 
"  Bravo,  Barry  !  That's  the  way  to  put  the  commether  on 
her  !  "  made  a  most  appropriate  comment  on  the  perform- 
ance. 

Irving,  on  the  other  hand,  was  at  his  best  in  this  strange 
scene.  It  was  the  very  perfection  of  hypocrisy.  There  was 
overwhelming  passion  in  his  voice  and  gesture  when  he 
declared  : — 


284     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

"  Your  beauty  was  the  cause  of  that  effect. 
Your  beauty,  which  did  haunt  me  in  my  sleep ; 
To  undertake  the  death  of  all  the  world 
So  I  might  live  one  hour  in  your  sweet  bosom." 

You  felt  he  could  not  fail  to  carry  the  heart  of  any  woman 
by  storm.  The  incredible  became  credible  as  one  listened. 
It  seemed  natural,  inevitable,  that  the  fascinated  Anne, 
even  at  the  bier  of  her  murdered  husband,  should  yield  her 
heart  to  the  passionate  pleadings  of  his  murderer. 

I  have  seen  Irving  in  almost  every  part  he  played,  and  I 
think  he  played  Richard  III  best  of  all.  The  superhuman 
energy,  the  grim,  grotesque  humour  of  the  character  suited 
him.  Irving  was  supreme  in  melodrama  (witness  "  The 
Bells  "),  and  Richard  III  is  the  greatest  melodrama  that 
was  ever  written. 

It  is  pleasant  to  recall  that  Irving  got  his  first  real  recog- 
nition in  Dublin,  playing  Digby  Grand  in  "  The  Two  Roses," 
and  that  he  was  always  a  prime  favourite  in  the  Irish 
metropolis. 

A  very  special  compliment  was  paid  him  by  Trinity 
College,  a  compliment  accorded  once  before  in  its  entire 
history  to  the  great  Irish  actress  Miss  Helen  Faucit  when 
she  played  Antigone  in  Dublin. 

On  behalf  of  the  College  an  illuminated  address  was  pre- 
sented to  Mr.  Irving  by  its  senior  representative,  and  it  was 
decreed  that  there  should  be  "  a  college  night  "  at  the 
theatre,  and  that  the  dons  and  the  students  should  attend 
wearing  a  distinctive  red  ribbon  badge  in  their  button-holes. 

Never  have  I  seen  greater  enthusiasm  in  a  theatre  than 
on  that  memorable  night.  It  was  a  splendid  performance. 
Irving  was  at  his  best,  and  when  he  came  before  the  curtain 
at  the  close  of  the  play  it  was  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  he  could  get  a  hearing.  He  seemed  quite  overpowered 
by  his  reception.  If  he  was  playing  a  part  then,  he  certainly 
played  it  superlatively. 

"  There  are  some  rewards  and  some  honours,"  he  said, 
"  so  unexpected  that  they  may  well  give  the  happy  recipient 
a  new  zest  for  existence.  Such  honours  you  have  heaped  on 
me,  my  kind  and  generous  friends.  For  the  welcome  you 


BOHEMIA  285 

have  given  me  on  these  classic  boards,  and  a  warmer  than 
you  have  given  me  here  to-night,  was  never  given  to  any 
artist,  alive  or  dead,  for  the  distinction  your  proud  old 
University  has  bestowed  on  me,  a  distinction  that  shall  be 
remembered  as  long  as  the  annals  of  our  stage  shall  last, 
accept  the  warmest  and  most  earnest  thanks  that  an  over- 
flowing heart  tries  in  vain  to  utter." 


CHAPTER -XXXI 
HAMLETS  I  HAVE  MET 

The  many-sided  prince — Barry  Sullivan — Tom  King — Sir  Henry  Irving — 
Booth — Benson — H.  B.  Irving — Martin  Harvey — Forbes -Robertson 
— Confession  and  atonement — Robertson  the  greatest  of  them  all — 
Stage  traditions  and  interpretations — Slow  music — Taking  a  call. 

IT  is  the  natural  instinct  of  the  dramatic  critic  to  judge 
all  great  actors  by  their  Hamlet.  In  this  many-sided 
character  all  the  passions,  thoughts,  feelings  of  our  com- 
plex nature  find  scope  and  breathing  space.  Filial  sorrow 
of  the  son  in  the  presence  of  death,  freezing  terror  of 
the  mortal  in  the  presence  of  the  supernatural,  pro- 
found, spirit-subduing  reverie,  mad,  frantic  passion,  with  a 
thousand  shifting  gradations  of  emotion,  are  all  displayed. 
To  every  actor  the  character  gives  room  for  the  development 
of  his  highest  powers,  while  not  even  the  greatest  actor  can 
hope  to  perfectly  sustain  it.  Thus  his  merits  and  his  short- 
comings are  made  apparent. 

I  have  seen  all  the  great  Hamlets  and  all  the  famous 
Hamlets  (a  far  more  numerous  body)  of  the  last  thirty-five 
years.  Barry  Sullivan,  Tom  King,  Benson,  Booth,  Tree, 
Irving,  Martin  Harvey,  Forbes-Robertson  and  others.  The 
list  is  a  long  one,  and  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  draw  it 
up  in  the  order  of  merit.  Almost  every  Hamlet  I  have  seen 
had  some  special  quality  of  his  own.  Barry  Sullivan,  stately 
declamation  ;  Tom  King  (now  hardly  ever  heard  of),  a  royal 
presence  and  a  majestic  stride — "  a  splendid  strut,"  one  of 
his  humble  admirers  called  it.  In  the  scenes  of  white-hot 
passion  Irving  was  perfect ;  and  his  son  is  scarcely  less 
perfect.  Tree  displays  marvellous  versatility.  Harvey  is 
the  meditative  student. 

In  the  scenes  that  made  most  demand  on  a  great  actor's 
power  Booth  was  at  his  best.  He  realized,  as  far  as  man 

286 


HAMLETS   I   HAVE  MET  287 

could,  the  soul-searching  power  of  awful  soliloquy,  "  To  be, 
or  not  to  be  ?  "  It  is  not  possible  to  describe  the  change 
of  tone  and  feature  with  which  the  wrestling  with  life  and 
death  and  intense  mental  agony  of  the  struggle  were  brought 
home  so  vividly  to  the  hearts  of  his  hearers.  One  little 
touch  struck  me  as  almost  too  natural  to  be  the  result  of 
art.  While  Hamlet's  thoughts  run  smoothly  he  lies  back 
in  his  chair  and  speaks  in  a  tone  of  philosophic  musing, 
but,  startled  by  the  sudden  fear,  "  Perchance  to  dream. 
Aye,  there's  the  rub.  For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what 
dreams  may  come  !  "  he  leaps  from  his  seat  and  paces  the 
stage  with  the  quick,  irregular  stride  of  restless  agitation. 
In  the  scene  with  Ophelia  the  yearning  tenderness  of  his 
love  was  ever  apparent  through  the  veil  of  the  "  antic  dis- 
position "  he  assumes.  The  audience  saw,  with  deepening 
interest,  the  piteous  struggle  waged  between  his  affections 
and  his  resolve. 

But  when  all's  said  and  done,  of  the  many  Hamlets  I 
have  seen  Forbes-Robertson  came  nearest  to  perfection.  I 
admired  other  actors  for  their  several  virtues,  but  he, 

So  perfect  and  so  peerless  was  made  up 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

He  was,  in  truth,  the  Hamlet  that  Shakespeare  imagined 
and  Ophelia  described  : — 

The  courtier's,  scholar's,  soldier's  eye,  tongue,  sword, 
The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form, 
The  observed  of  all  observers. 

It  may  be  that  my  estimation  of  Forbes-Robertson  is 
coloured  by  the  over-zeal  of  the  convert.  For  let  the  truth 
be  spoken,  when  I  saw  his  Hamlet  first,  while  all  London 
was  still  ringing  with  applause,  I  was  distinctly  disappointed. 

My  vanity  still  prompts  the  belief  that  the  fault  was  not 
wholly  mine,  that  his  performance  has  since  wonderfully 
grown  in  essential  heat,  in  power  and  passion. 

Even  then  his  elocution,  gesture,  presence  and  movement 
on  the  stage  were  perfect,  his  voice  most  musical.  But 
somehow  to  me  he  seemed  "  faultily  faultless."  In  the 
most  moving  scenes  I  was  unmoved. 


288     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

This  feeling  I  embodied  in  a  column  of  disappointed 
criticism  in  the  next  morning's  paper.  My  disappointment 
endured  about  a  year ;  then  my  conversion  came. 

Forbes-Robertson  was  playing  in  "  Othello "  at  the 
Theatre  Royal,  and  my  wife  and  a  lady  visitor  wanted  to 
see  the  performance.  I  took  them  there,  and  then  begged 
to  be  excused.  I  concluded,  not  unnaturally  from  my 
premises,  that  if  he  had  not  fire  enough  for  Hamlet  he  could 
never  reach  the  fierce  fervour  of  Othello  ;  if  his  Hamlet 
chilled,  his  Othello  would  freeze  me. 

So  I  installed  the  ladies  in  their  places  and  went  off  to 
the  newspaper  office,  which  was  close  by,  to  finish  some 
work  I  had  on  hand.  The  work  took  me  a  shorter  time 
than  I  had  expected,  and  I  was  back  in  time  for  the  last 
two  acts  of  the  play.  In  my  life  I  had  never  a  more  delight- 
ful surprise.  It  was  a  new  revelation  of  the  character  of 
Othello.  The  words  the  Moor  speaks  in  the  play  I  know 
pretty  well  by  heart,  but  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  the 
man  before  as  Shakespeare  had  created  him.  I  had  seen 
Salvini  in  the  part  (his  best),  and  found  likeness  and  un- 
likeness  in  Robertson's  personation.  Both  were  replete 
with  the  hot  fire  of  passion,  trembling  in  the  voice  and 
blazing  from  the  eyes  (for  where,  in  my  ignorance,  I  thought 
Robertson  must  fail  he  most  excelled).  But  even  in  the 
whirlwind  of  passion  his  dignity  was  retained.  There  was 
too  much  of  the  wild  beast  about  the  Italian's  Othello. 
Robertson,  in  the  wildest  paroxysm,  was  essentially  a  man. 

My  enthusiasm  took  practical  form.  At  the  end  of  the 
play  I  sent  the  ladies  home  by  themselves.  I  returned  to 
the  office,  hunted  up  and  destroyed  the  somewhat  perfunc- 
tory notice  that  had  been  written  of  the  performance,  and 
sat  down  after  midnight  to  write  a  gratuitous  column  of 
undiluted  praise.  It  was  an  atonement. 

When  I  next  saw  Forbes-Robertson  in  Hamlet  I  found 
him  even  finer  than  in  Othello.  Whether  the  change  was 
in  me  or  him,  or  both,  I  will  not  presume  to  say. 

It  is  strange  how  stage  traditions  hamper  the  perform- 
ance of  Hamlet,  and  how  obediently  they  are  accepted  by 
competent  managers  and  great  actors.  I  never  saw  a  ghost 


HAMLETS  I   HAVE  MET  289 

of  Hamlet's  father  that  did  not  represent  a  decrepit  old 
man. 

I  am  not  a  stickler  for  scenic  accessories,  but,  at  least, 
they  should  never  contradict  the  text.  Shakespeare  de- 
scribes the  murdered  king  as  in  the  prime  of  mature  man- 
hood. "  His  beard,"  says  Horatio,  "  was.  as  I  have  seen 
it  in  life,  a  sable  silvered."  But  the  stage  ghost  has  a  beard 
as  white  as  snow,  and  looks  far  more  like  the  ghost  of  old 
Polonius  than  that  of  Hamlet's  warlike  sire.  Moreover,  it 
is  the  stage  custom  to  turn  the  limelight  full  on  the  appari- 
tion, and  limelight  is  as  trying  to  a  ghost  as  to  a  lady  of 
uncertain  age. 

The  stage  device  of  emphasizing  passion  by  the  shivering 
notes  of  a  violin  is  always  an  abomination,  but  most  abomin- 
able of  all  when  Shakespeare  is  supplemented  by  the  fiddle. 
Still  more  unpardonable,  if  that  be  possible,  is  the  sin  of 
Shakespearean  actors  who  come  before  the  curtain  "  to  take 
their  call,"  as  the  stage  phrase  has  it.  Nothing  can  be  more 
grotesque  than  to  see,  as  I  have  seen,  the  unhappy  Ophelia 
rise  from  her  newly  made  grave,  and  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's 
father  return  from  "  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames,"  to 
bow  and  smile  to  an  applauding  audience. 

In  the  scene  in  which  Hamlet  bids  his  mother 

"  Look  here  upon  this  picture  and  upon  this, 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers," 

almost  every  actor  has  a  trick  of  his  own,  often  absurd, 
always  unnecessary,  for  illustrating  the  text.  Barry 
Sullivan  had  two  preposterous  family  portraits  hung  on  the 
walls  of  the  Queen's  bedchamber,  to  which  he  pointed  alter- 
nately. But  the  more  approved  device,  adopted,  if  I  re- 
member rightly  by  Irving,  Tree  and,  I  fear,  by  Forbes- 
Robertson,  is  a  couple  of  miniatures  in  lockets,  one  worn 
by  Hamlet  and  the  other  by  the  Queen-Mother.  A  moment's 
reflection  should  surely  suffice  to  show  the  incongruity  of 
condensing  Hamlet's  description  of  his  father  to  the  tiny 
surface  of  a  miniature — 

"  The  front  of  Jove  himself, 
An  eye  like  Mars  to  threaten  and  command, 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 
New  lighted  on  some  heaven-kissing  hill," 


2QO     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

cannot  be  contracted  into  the  fraction  of  an  inch.  It  seems 
plain  enough  that  by  the  counterfeit  presentments  Shake- 
speare intended  the  word-pictures  of  Hamlet.  Hamlet  saw 
his  father  in  "  his  mind's  eye  "  in  fashion  as  he  lived,  and 
so  showed  him  to  the  Queen.  But  stage  tradition,  however 
absurd,  dies  hard.  I  am  glad  to  notice  that  Martin  Harvey 
has  emancipated  himself  from  this  absurdity. 

While  I  am  about  it  I  may  say  that  the  conception  of 
the  play  scene  in  Hamlet,  which  is  common  to  all  the  actors 
I  have  seen,  seems  to  me  to  be  wholly  foreign  to  the  plain 
purpose  of  the  play.  Almost  from  the  first  Hamlet  is  shown 
in  a  frenzy  of  passion,  which  would  have  at  once  put  the 
King  on  his  guard  and  defeat  his  own  purpose.  There  is 
no  indication  of  such  a  frenzy  in  the  text.  Hamlet  is  there 
a  sardonic  searcher  of  hearts  who  watches  "  the  galled  jade 
wince  "  under  the  lash.  A  man  in  an  unrestrained  frenzy 
of  passion  would  be  incapable  of  the  cool  mockery  of  his 
reply  to  the  King. 

"  He  poisons  him  in  the  garden  for  his  estate.  His  name 
is  Gonzago.  The  story  is  extant  and  written  in  very  choice 
Italian.  You  shall  see  anon  how  the  murderer  gets  the  love 
of  Gonzago's  wife." 

It  seems  self-evident  that  those  words  should  be  coolly 
spoken,  but  every  Hamlet  I  have  seen  squirms  across  the 
stage  on  his  stomach  and  yells  the  words  into  the  ear  of 
the  King.  Surely  Mr.  Forbes-Robertson  is  strong  enough 
to  break  through  this  curious  stage  tradition  and  give  us 
the  scene  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it.  There  are  no  such 
anomalies  to  be  found  in  his  acting  of  plays — like  Shaw's 
wonderful  "  Caesar  and  Cleopatra" — of  which  he  is  the  first 
interpreter. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
MORE  ABOUT  ACTORS 

"  Caesar  and  Cleopatra  " — Forbes -Robertson  and  Bernard  Shaw — Vivacity 
and  versatility  of  Tree — An  impromptu  interview — Inspiration  or 
study — Mr.  Balfour's  imperturbability — Waller  as  Monsieur  Beaucaire 
— A  narrow  escape — Criticism  of  the  Prince  of  Wales — Sir  John  Hare 
— His  opinion  of  Jefferson. 

I  COULD  never  hope  to  do  justice  to  Forbes-Robertson 
and  his  charming  wife  in  the  greatest  of  Bernard  Shaw's 
plays,  "  Caesar  and  Cleopatra."  It  is  a  pet  theory  of  mine 
that  there  is  more  varied  and  genuine  delight  to  be  got  from 
the  reading  than  the  acting  of  a  Shakespearean  play.  No 
company  of  actors,  however  gifted,  can  quite  realize  the 
characters  for  the  audience  as  the  imagination  of  a  sym- 
pathetic reader  realizes  them  for  himself.  Almost  every 
character  in  Shakespeare  is  not  merely  perfectly  drawn,  but 
is  important  to  the  action  of  the  play,  so  that  a  hitch,  even 
in  a  minor  part,  is  apt  to  throw  the  whole  performance  out 
of  gear. 

But  it  is  quite  different  with  Shakespeare's  "  great  rival," 
Bernard  Shaw.  He  needs  the  help  of  the  actor.  When  I 
read  "  Caesar  and  Cleopatra,"  I  found  it  a  curious  mixture 
of  high-flown  extravagance  and  broad  farce,  both  good  of 
their  kind. 

Played  by  Forbes-Robertson  and  his  wife,  I  recognized 
the  play  as  a  work  of  genius.  Caesar's  character,  as  Robert- 
son played  it,  was  a  fascinating  study  of  the  "  superman," 
great  enough  and  wise  enough  to  be  good-humoured, 
tolerant  and  beneficent,  willing  to  be  amused  by  the  gambols 
of  that  smooth,  sleek,  cruel  little  tiger-cat  Cleopatra. 
Kindly  to  everybody  and  everything,  but  turning  all  to  the 
furtherance  of  his  own  ends,  and  pursuing  his  purpose 
with  insight,  forethought  and  masterful  determination,  in- 

291 


292     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

exorable  as  fate.  One  felt  that  the  Csesar  of  Robertson's 
acting  was  greater  and  truer  than  the  Caesar  of  Shaw's 
conception.  It  was  the  triumph  of  the  actor  over  the 
playwright. 

Of  all  the  actors  I  have  met,  Tree  possesses  the  greatest 
vivacity  and  versatility.  He  gives  himself  to  his  part  with 
the  most  absolute  abandonment.  His  range  of  character 
is  without  limit.  From  Hamlet  to  Falstaff,  from  Falstaff 
to  Caliban,  nothing  came  amiss  to  him.  It  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve, yet  it  is  none  the  less  true,  that  he  created  the  success 
of  that  once  popular  comedy  "  The  Private  Secretary,"  in 
the  character  of  the  anaemic  young  clergyman,  which  one 
might  fairly  suppose  to  be  out  of  the  range  of  the  full- 
blooded  vitality  which  made  his  Falstaff  the  finest  on  the 
stage. 

He  told  me  an  amusing  little  incident  of  the  second  night 
of  the  play,  which  hung  fire  on  the  first  performance.  It 
occurred  to  Tree  that  the  blue  ribbon  of  total  abstinence 
would  be  an  appropriate  adjunct  to  the  Private  Secretary. 
But  an  exhaustive  search  proved  that  there  was  not 
a  scrap  of  blue  ribbon  to  be  found  on  the  premises. 
Finally,  a  bit  of  tape  had  to  be  painted  blue  to  meet  the 
emergency. 

I  had  many  chats  with  Tree  on  many  subjects.  He  was 
good  enough  to  lunch  with  me  early  in  our  acquaintance, 
tempted  thereto,  I  fancy,  by  a  large  collection  of  Shake- 
spearean engravings,  on  which  I  somewhat  pride  myself. 
Tree  was  in  great  form  at  lunch  and  after  it,  full  of  stage 
wisdom  and  humorous  anecdote.  As  he  was  leaving  I  said 
to  him  : 

'  Your  talk  to-day  was  too  good  to  be  lost.    Shall  I  make 
an  interview  of  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  answered,  "  I  would  be  delighted  if 
you  could  ;  but  you  can't." 

'  To-night,"  I  replied,  "  I  shall  send  you  a  couple  of 
columns  of  proofs  for  correction." 

The  only  correction  or  comment  on  the  proof  which  I  sent 
him  was  the  one  word  "  wonderful,"  written  at  the  end  of 
the  proof. 


MORE  ABOUT  ACTORS  293 

On  another  occasion  I  had  a  long  argument  with  Tree  on 
the  anomaly  of  actors  "  taking  their  calls  during  the  progress 
of  the  play,"  so  destroying  the  stage  delusion,  which  it  is 
their  special  function  to  create  and  maintain.  During  that 
occasion  in  Dublin  when  the  curtain  rose  in  response  to 
applause,  there  was  shown  on  the  stage,  not  the  husband 
and  wife  just  parted  in  a  rage  and  mysteriously  reunited, 
nor  the  murderer  and  his  victim  amicably  smiling,  but  a 
tableau  which  suggested  the  continued  progress  of  the 
play. 

I  am  sorry  to  add  that  Sir  Herbert,  impelled,  I  doubt  not, 
by  the  insistent  folly  of  the  public,  has  abandoned  this 
salutary  innovation. 

I  remember  discussing  with  Tree  the  doctrine  favoured 
by  Coquelin  that  an  actor  should  put  on  his  stage  passions 
like  his  stage  clothes,  coolly  and  conscientiously,  with  a 
keen  eye  to  their  adjustment  and  effect,  that  he  should  be 
always  the  imperturbable  critic  of  his  own  performance. 
Sir  Herbert  repudiated  the  doctrine. 

"  You  must  for  the  time  being,"  he  said,  "  in  body  and 
soul,  be  the  character  you  act.  You  move  your  audience 
in  proportion  as  you  are  moved  yourself."  Horace,  it  will 
be  remembered,  held  the  same  view  :  "  Si  vis  me  flere 
flendum  est  primum  tibi  ipsi." 

Sir  Herbert  once  told  me  a  little  incident  illustrating 
Mr.  Balfour's  imperturbability,  which,  in  spite  of  its  irrele- 
vance, is  perhaps  worth  repeating  here. 

It  happened  in  the  time  of  the  Parnell  crisis,  on  which  so 
much  depended,  when  the  Irish  party  were  in  excited  con- 
ference in  Committee  Room  No.  15,  and  the  result  was 
awaited  with  intense  eagerness  by  Liberals  and  Conserva- 
tives. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tree  happened  to  be  going  down  for  a 
week-end  to  a  country  house,  where,  amongst  other  eminent 
politicians,  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour  was  staying. 

"  All  London  was  full  of  the  subject,"  said  Tree.  "  There 
was  a  buzz  of  excitement  even  on  the  railway  platform,  and 
an  unprecedented  rush  for  newspapers.  This  gave  me  a 
happy  thought.  I  bought  a  pile  of  papers  representing  all 
shades  of  opinion,  to  help  to  make  my  welcome  where  I  was 


294     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

going.  When  I  got  to  the  place  there  was  a  scramble  for 
the  newspapers  like  a  rush  on  the  bank.  There  was  nothing 
else  thought  of.  Everybody  stood  round  reading  them.  As 
Mr.  Balfour,  who  had  come  down  late,  joined  the  party,  one 
of  his  devoted  followers  handed  him  a  paper  with  a  look 
that  Sidney  must  have  worn  when  he  passed  to  the  other 
fellow  that  cup  of  water  he  wanted  so  badly  for  himself. 
Just  then  the  luncheon-gong  rang.  So  far  as  the  rest  were 
concerned  it  rang  to  deaf  ears.  But  Mr.  Balfour,  abstract- 
edly, put  down  his  paper  unread,  and  sauntered  languidly 
away  to  his  lunch." 

In  the  character*  of  heroic  adventurer  there  is  no  actor  to 
touch  Lewis  Waller,  and  he  was  at  his  very  best  in  the  part 
of  Monsieur  Beaucaire.  The  play  fitted  the  actor,  and  the 
actor  the  play,  to  perfection.  It  is  a  dainty  and  delightful 
piece  of  work.  The  dash  and  daring  of  one  of  Dumas' 
novels,  with  its  high-flown  love-making  and  marvellous 
sword-play,  is  spiced  with  a  delicate  flavour  of  the  humour 
of  the  "  School  for  Scandal."  Monsieur  Beaucaire  is  essen- 
tially "  a  pretty  fellow  of  his  hands,"  a  hero  that  has 
stepped,  spick  and  span,  out  of  a  canvas  of  Watteau, 
whose  wit  is  as  bright  and  keen  as  his  sword,  and  who 
affects  superlatives  in  his  love-making.  Of  Mr.  Waller's 
acting  in  the  part  it  can  only  be  said  that  it  isn't  acting 
at  all  in  the  sense  that  the  word  is  commonly  used ;  the 
actor  disappears  in  his  part.  There  is  no  trace  left  of 
Mr.  Waller,  only  the  fascinating  Frenchman  with  his  pretty 
broken  English,  his  boyish  gaiety,  his  chivalrous  daring  and 
his  playful  humour  remains. 

The  play  was,  it  will  be  remembered,  a  tremendous 
success,  and  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Waller  as  Monsieur  Beaucaire 
was  the  chief  picture  of  the  year  at  the  Royal  Academy. 
Even  after  this  lapse  of  time  it  may  be  not  without  interest 
to  recall  the  account  which  he  gave  me  in  an  interview  of 
its  narrow  escape  from  a  disastrous  failure. 

"  How,"  I  asked  him,  "  did  you  first  fall  in  with  '  Monsieur 
Beaucaire '  ?  " 

"  I  picked  him  up  in  an  agent's  office  when  I  went  to 
look  for  something  else.  '  Here,'  said  the  agent,  '  is  some- 


MORE  ABOUT  ACTORS  295 

thing  that  might  suit  you.'  And  when  I  had  read  it  half- 
way through  I  bought  it." 

"  You  played  it  at  once,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  That  is  the  curious  part  of  the  story.  I  had 
it  by  me  a  year  and  a  half  before  I  attempted  to  play  it. 
Then  I  feared  I  might  lose  my  rights  by  delay,  and  resolved 
to  put  it  on  the  stage." 

"  In  London  ?  " 

"  Not  in  London.  Honestly,  I  had  not  the  money  to 
start  it  in  London,  or  the  chance.  I  took  it  down  with  me 
to  Liverpool,  where  I  was  rather  a  favourite  and  where  I 
expected  a  good  reception,  and  brought  it  out  well  at  the 
Shakespearean  Theatre.  As  I  said,  I  expected  a  big  success, 
and  I  was  bitterly  disappointed.  There  was  a  moderate 
house  and  moderate  applause.  The  people  laughed  at  the 
right  place  and  clapped  at  the  right  place.  But  all  the 
time  there  was  a  touch  of  frost  in  the  air.  I  felt  in  my 
bones  that  the  play  was  not  going  as  it  ought  to  go.  Two 
or  three  managers  from  the  London  theatres,  including  the 
'  Comedy,'  came  down  to  see  the  first  performance,  and 
went  back  again  by  the  first  morning  tram.  There  were  a 
number  of  friends  of  mine  in  the  theatre  that  night,  but 
they  did  not  come  round  the  scenes  to  congratulate  me,  as 
I  had  half  expected." 

"  Did  the  papers  make  up  for  the  public  ?  " 

"  No-o-o,"  said  Waller,  with  a  long  emphasis  on  the  vowel. 
"  The  papers  were  a  shade  worse  than  the  public.  Not 
abuse,  you  understand,  but  just  tolerant  criticism.  Damned 
with  faint  praise — suggested  improving  away  the  whole 
performance." 

"  Surely  they  liked  Monsieur  Beaucaire  himself ;  they 
could  hardly  have  missed  seeing  the  merit  of  that  per- 
sonage ?  " 

"  Tell  me  what  you  liked  best  hi  him." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  like  best  the  way  the  French  accent, 
grace  and  vivacity  are  preserved." 

"  That  was  just  it ;  that  was  the  result  of  just  a  year 
and  a  half's  practice.  I  believe  I  transformed  myself  into  a 
Frenchman.  I  learned  to  think  in  broken  English — at  least, 


296     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Monsieur  Beaucaire's  thoughts.  Now  comes  the  cruelty. 
Three  or  four  principal  Liverpool  papers  quietly  advised 
me  to  drop  the  Frenchman  and  play  it  in  plain  English.  I 
was  a  bit  disheartened,  because  I  knew  the  thing  was 
good. 

"  After  three  days  of  this  frost,  one  afternoon  I  said  to 
my  manager,  '  I  cannot  stand  it.  I  must  have  a  game  of 
golf,  or  I'll  break  down  !  '  " 

"  Then  you  play  golf  ?  " 

"  Life  without  golf  would  not  be  worth  living.  Well,  I 
went  off  to  the  links.  As  a  rule,  it  takes  only  half  a  round 
at  golf  to  make  me  forget  every  trouble.  This  time  I  went 
round  twelve  holes  before  I  got  rid  of  Monsieur  Beaucaire. 
After  that,  of  course,  I  forgot  everything  except  how  to  get 
the  ball  into  the  hole.  I  had  a  pleasant  surprise  when  I 
came  back.  As  I  stepped  on  the  stage  the  first  man  I  saw 
in  front  was  Charlie  Wyndham.  That  gave  me  courage. 
I  knew  the  play  was  good,  and  I  knew  that  Charlie  Wyndham 
would  know  a  good  thing  when  he  saw  it.  I  sent  him  a 
note  round,  asking  him  to  sup  with  me  after  the  show. 
I  must  confess  it  was  a  nervous  moment  for  me  when 
we  met. 

"  '  Well  ? '  I  said,  and  waited. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  '  you 
have  got  a  David  Garrick  play,  my  boy.  Love,  humour, 
dash,  daring,  everything.  It  is  bound  to  go.' 

"  In  that  moment  my  fear  vanished,  for  Wyndham  knew, 
not  his  play  only,  but  his  London  public,  and  his  opinion 
was  to  me  infallible." 

"  So  it  proved  ?  " 

"  Exactly.  A  few  days  later  I  had  a  letter  from  the 
manager  of  the  '  Comedy,'  who  had  refused  the  play, 
reversing  his  decision  and  asking  me  to  take  it  to  his 
theatre.  I  need  not  tell  you  what  a  success  it  has  been 
since." 

The  reminiscence  is  interesting  as  showing  how  narrow 
is  the  line  between  the  success  and  failure  of  a  good 
play,  even  after  it  has  reached  the  stage.  It  frightens 
one  to  think  how  many  are  smothered  unheard  of  in 


MORE  ABOUT  ACTORS  297 

the    agent's    office    and    "  die    with    all    their    music    in 
them." 

A  comment  on  "  Monsieur  Beaucaire  "  from  high  quarters 
is  worth  recalling.  "  One  thing  struck  me  with  surprise," 
I  said  to  Waller,  "  and  that  is  that  '  Monsieur  Beaucaire,' 
whatever  the  merits  of  the  play,  was  tolerated,  much  less 
applauded,  in  London.  The  French  Prince  is  the  hero,  the 
English  Duke  is  the  blackleg.  The  old  British  boast  is  re- 
versed in  the  play,  and  one  Frenchman  beats  five  English- 
men with  ease." 

"  It  is  a  curious  thing,"  he  answered,  "  that  the  Prince 
of  Wales  "  (now  King  of  England)  "  made  much  the  same 
remark  to  me  when  he  came  to  my  room  after  he  had  first 
witnessed  the  performance. 

"  '  Mr.  Waller,'  he  said,  '  my  opinion  of  our  countrymen 
has  been  enormously  improved  since  I  have  seen  your 
play.' 

"  For  a  moment  I  thought  his  Royal  Highness  was 
chaffing,  if  royalty  could  condescend  to  chaff,  because  the 
Englishmen  in  my  play  could  hardly  be  considered  favour- 
able specimens  of  the  race,  and  I  hinted  as  much. 

"  '  It  was  not  the  English  on  the  stage,  but  the  English 
before  the  footlights  I  was  thinking  of,'  he  answered.  '  It 
was  a  wonderful  exhibition  of  national  tolerance  and  good- 
humour.  If  you  were  playing  in  France  a  play  in  which 
one  Englishman  beat  five  Frenchmen,  or  in  Germany  a  play 
in  which  one  Frenchman  beat  five  Germans,  they  would 
have  torn  the  theatre  down  about  your  ears.  Our  people 
laugh  at  French  humour  and  applaud  French  valour  with 
perfect  impartiality.'  ' 

Dublin  has  a  reputation  for  dramatic  appreciation,  but 
on  one  occasion  it  certainly  did  not  live  up  to  its  reputation. 
When  Hare  visited  Dublin  first  with  the  delightful  comedy 
"  A  Pair  of  Spectacles,"  the  performance  was  very  coldly 
received  by  the  Dublin  Press,  and,  as  a  consequence,  Sir 
John,  who  was  himself  a  great  admirer  of  the  play,  declined 
for  some  years  afterwards  to  come  to  Dublin.  There  was, 
however,  one  exception  to  the  disparagement.  In  the  paper 
with  which  I  was  connected  there  appeared,  I  am  glad  to 


298     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

remember,  over  a  column  of  enthusiastic  appreciation.  That 
fact  recommended  me  to  the  kindness  of  Sir  John  when  he 
next  visited  our  city.  Of  all  the  actors  I  have  met,  there 
was  none  more  free  from  the  least  trace  of  stage  mannerism 
or  affectation. 

In  the  course  of  our  friendly  chats  he  complained  of  the 
monotony  of  long  runs.  "  You  have  to  go  down  to  the 
theatre  night  after  night  when  other  people  are  going  to  their 
dinner,  and  play  the  same  part  over  and  over  again  until 
sometimes  your  voice  sounds  to  yourself  like  a  phonograph." 
He  was  in  accord  with  Tree  rather  than  Coquelin  in  his 
belief  that  good  acting  comes  by  inspiration  rather  than  by 
consideration. 

"  I  thoroughly  study  and  realize  the  man  I  am  to  per- 
sonate," he  said,  "  and  then  give  myself  wholly  into  his 
hands  and  let  him  play  the  part  for  me." 

I  never  met  a  man  more  frank  in  praise  of  his  brother 
actors.  Salvini's  Othello  he  regarded  as  the  most  adequate, 
the  most  powerful  Shakespearean  personation  he  had  ever 
seen.  The  power  and  passion  of  it  in  the  awful  scene 
with  lago  shook  the  hearts  of  the  audience.  But  the 
most  miraculous  performance,  the  most  absolutely  perfect 
acting  on  the  stage  in  his  time,  was  Jefferson's  Rip  Van 
Winkle. 

"  For  one  whole  act,"  he  said,  "  Jefferson  is  practically 
alone  on  the  stage  and  holds  the  audience  entranced.  No 
other  actor  ever  performed  such  a  feat.  I  saw  him  act  a 
few  years  ago  when  I  was  in  America.  He  is  an  old  man 
now,  immensely  rich,  living  on  a  large  farm  of  his  own. 
But  he  goes  back  to  the  theatre  to  play  once  in  a  while,  for 
sheer  love  of  it,  as  he  tells  me,  and  whenever  he  goes  the 
theatre  is  thronged  to  the  doors — six  hundred  pounds  at 
least  at  each  performance.  People  who  have  seen  '  Rip  Van 
Winkle '  as  children  bring  their  children  to  see  it  as  the 
greatest  performance  of  two  generations." 

It  is  a  mistake,  I  learned,  to  suppose,  as  is  often  supposed, 
that  Jefferson  is  merely  a  one-part  actor.  "  I  saw  him," 
said  Sir  John,  "  billed  for  Bob  Acres  in  the  '  Rivals,'  and 
I  was  actually  afraid  to  go,  I  was  so  enchanted  with  the 


MORE  ABOUT  ACTORS  299 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  this  was  so  different.  But  he  was  the 
most  delightful  Bob  Acres  I  ever  saw.  Of  course,  I  heard 
the  story  that  Jefferson's  mind  was  affected  by  constantly 
playing  Rip  Van  Winkle,  but  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth 
in  it.  He  was  a  most  charming  man  to  meet  in  private  life, 
and  one  of  the  happiest." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

STILL  ON  THE  STAGE 

Grossmith — An  audience  of  one — His  special  gift — Snapshots  of  Tree, 
Irving  and  Barrett — The  gifts  of  Gilbert — His  two  tunes — Martin 
Harvey — A  reluctant  Bunthorne — Kubelik — A  grim  coincidence — 
Stage  comicalities. 

OF  Mr.  Grossmith  I  was  always  a  great  admirer,  but  I 
rather  think  the  best  performance  of  his  that  I  ever 
witnessed  was  given  to  an  audience  of  one  in  a  drawing- 
room  of  the  Shelbourne  Hotel,  Dublin,  where  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  the  audience.  Never  was  more  wonderfully 
displayed  his  faculty  of  compelling  your  belief  in  invisible 
people. 

On  this  occasion,  I  remember,  he  led  an  imaginary  lady 
on  his  arm  to  the  piano,  chatting  to  her  affably  while  they 
walked.  When  he  arranged  her  music-stool  and  turned  over 
the  pages  of  her  music  while  she  sang  I  knew  she  was  there, 
though  I  could  not  see  her,  so  miraculously,  by  a  thousand 
little  gestures  and  words,  did  he  assure  me  of  her  presence. 

"  If,"  he  said  to  me  afterwards,  "  you  talk  seriously  to  a 
person  in  an  empty  chair,  the  audience  will  see  the  person 
in  it ;  that's  the  secret.  But  I  don't  leave  those  things  to 
chance,  I  plan  the  position  beforehand." 

Mr.  Grossmith  showed  me  a  notebook  crammed  with 
stray  sentences  and  scraps  of  music  with  curious  little 
diagrams  scattered  here  and  there.  "  Those  are  my  chairs," 
he  said,  "  with  the  invisible  characters  in  them." 

He  then  and  there  went  into  a  railway  carriage,  leaving 
his  wife  and  child  on  the  platform.  I  declare  I  could  see 
the  grumpy  passenger  to  whom  he  apologized  as  he  stretched 
past  him  to  kiss  the  baby  at  the  door. 

Beerbohm  Tree,  Henry  Irving  and  Wilson  Barrett  he 
passed  in  review  with  words  of  friendly  praise  for  each 

300 


STILL  ON  THE  STAGE  301 

of  them  and  snatches  of  delightful  mimicry.  For  Tree, 
Grossmith  professed  great  friendliness  and  admiration,  de- 
claring him  a  master  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  Then,  in  a 
moment,  Tree  suddenly  appeared  before  me  in  action  as  he 
lived — voice,  tone  and  gesture  irresistibly  perfect.  Irving 
also  he  thought  "  great  in  everything."  In  moments  of 
intense  excitement  light  kindled  in  the  great  actor's  eyes. 
You  could  see  the  passion  shining  through.  "  Wilson 
Barrett  was  a  fine  actor,  and  most  conscientiously  original. 
He  studied  Irving  closely,"  said  Grossmith,  "  for  the  pur- 
pose of  reversing  him  in  everything  he  did. 

"  If,  for  example,  Irving  enters  frontways  from  the  right 
wing  and  his  hands  hang  down  this  way  "  (enter  Irving  as 
described),  "  Wilson  Barrett  enters  backwards  from  the  left 
wing  with  his  hands  over  his  head,  this  way,"  and  Wilson 
Barrett  made  his  entrance  in  turn. 

As  might  be  expected,  Grossmith  brimmed  over  with 
enthusiasm  when  he  spoke  of  Gilbert.  "  I  think  Gilbert's 
comic  operas  the  best  of  all,"  he  said.  "  I'd  go  farther. 
In  my  opinion,  his  worst — that's  not  the  way  to  put  it,  for 
he  has  no  worst — his  least  good  is  better  than  the  best 
of  any  other  man.  There  is  no  one  with  such  delightful, 
startling,  original  humour." 

"  Which  of  his  did  you  play  in  first  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  '  The  Sorcerer.'  It  came  about  this  way.  As  the  opera 
was  originally  written,  John  Wellington  Wells  was  a  very 
subordinate  part.  It  was  thought  that  anyone  would  do 
to  sing  the  patter  song,  but  it  developed  on  rehearsal.  Then 
Gilbert  resolved  to  ask  me  to  undertake  it.  I  was  doing 
very  well  in  society  entertainments,  and  I  actually  asked 
time  to  think  it  over.  Looking  back  on  the  incident  now, 
and  knowing  Gilbert  as  I  do,  I  am  surprised  that  he  did 
not  write  to  say  that  I  might  take  as  much  time  as  I  liked 
to  think  it  over — that  I  might  keep  on  thinking  over  it 
while  someone  else  was  playing  it. 

"  Curiously  enough,  the  '  Sorcerer,'  though  one  of  the 
very  cleverest  of  Gilbert's  things,  did  not  go  at  first,  and 
I  am  vain  enough  to  think  that  I  helped  to  pull  it  along 
with  the  teapot  scene  and  dance  and  with  a  respectable 


302     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

descent  into  Hades.  '  Pinafore '  did  not  do  well,  either,  at 
first  in  London.  But  it  had  a  tremendous  success  in  America. 
The  Americans  declared  that  the  Londoners  did  not  know  a 
good  thing  when  they  got  it.  Then  the  Londoners  were  put 
on  their  mettle  and  flocked  to  the  piece,  and  it  ran  for  two 
years.  I  had  a  curious  experience  in  '  Pinafore,'  the  most 
curious  of  my  career.  It  was  run  first  by  a  syndicate.  They 
stopped  the  piece  and  closed  the  theatre  about  Christmas. 
But  Mr.  D'Oyly  Carte,  Mr.  Gunn,  Mr.  Gilbert  and  some 
others  reopened  the  theatre,  and  set  the  piece  merrily  run- 
ning again.  Then  there  was  a  royal  row  between  the  rival 
claimants,  and  one  night,  when  the  opera  was  in  full  swing, 
the  syndicate  invaded  the  theatre  and  attempted  to  carry 
off  our  scenery.  I  was  singing  Sir  Joseph  Porter's  song  at 
the  time  with  my  chorus  of  mariners.  But  the  mariners 
were  called  off  suddenly  to  repel  boarders  in  the  wings,  and 
with  their  stage  pikes  they  put  the  invaders  to  flight." 

Here  Grossmith  gave  a  lightning  sketch  of  a  respectable 
invader  in  full  flight  with  a  sharp-pointed  spear  at  his  rear. 

"  It  was  in  '  Pinafore  '  that  I  had  the  longest  run,  nearly 
two  years,  though  I  had  nearly  as  long  in  '  Patience '  and 
'  The  Mikado.'  Long  runs  are  terribly  trying  to  me  ;  the 
process  never  becomes  mechanical,  and  it  tangles  my  nerves. 

"  I  have  always  got  on  well  with  Gilbert.  He  was  most 
kind,  though  a  bit  of  a  martinet,  as  everyone  knows.  Some- 
times he  took  you  up  short  when  you  least  expected  it. 
You'd  say,  for  example,  '  It's  a  fine  day,'  and  he'd  regard 
that  as  a  personal  affront  if  he  was  dissatisfied  with  the 
weather.  Then  he'd  allow  no  tampering  with  his  work. 
With  Sullivan  it  was  different.  If  a  bit  of  music  didn't  fit 
well  into  my  dialogue,  I  could  go  to  Sullivan  and  ask  him 
to  change  it.  But  if  I  asked  Gilbert  to  transpose  a  line,  he 
would  look  at  me  and  say,  '  I  suppose  you  think  you  could 
write  the  piece  better  than  I  ? '  which  I  couldn't,  nor  any- 
one else  either." 

Most  people,  I  fancy,  know  the  story  of  the  man  that 
wrote  to  Gilbert  that  he  did  not  like  the  title  "  Ruddygore." 
The  author  might  just  as  well,  the  critic  thought,  have 
called  it  "  Bloodygore." 


STILL  ON  THE  STAGE  303 

Gilbert  replied  in  a  short  note  that  was  dangerously 
polite  : — 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  If  you  reflect  a  little  you  will  perceive  that  there 
is  a  difference  between  ruddy  and  bloody.  For  example,  if 
I  spoke  of  your  '  ruddy  cheek,'  you  would  take  it  as  a 
compliment ;  whereas  if  I  referred  to  your  '  bloody  cheek,' 
you  might  possibly  think  me  offensive." 

Grossmith  intensely  admired  the  "  Bab  Ballads  "  (which, 
as  Gilbert  was  in  after  life  fond  of  recalling,  were  declined, 
with  thanks,  by  Punch).  He  knew  them,  he  told  me,  by 
heart,  "  backwards  and  forwards  and  upside-down." 
"  There  never  was  such  a  master  of  rhythm,"  he  declared, 
"  and  of  that  wonderful  humour  that  trips  you  up  and 
throws  you  over.  Sullivan  had  some  difficulty  in  setting 
other  people's  songs,  but  with  one  of  Gilbert's  he  went  to 
the  piano  and  played  the  music  right  off,  the  rhythm  was 
so  catching.  Of  course,  you  know  that  Gilbert  himself  has 
not  the  slightest  notion  of  music.  He  declares  that  he  only 
knows  two  airs ;  one  is  '  God  save  the  King,'  and  the 
other  isn't."  I  had  known  that  a  good  many  masters  of 
rhyme  and  rhythm,  including  Scott  and  Macaulay,  had  no 
ear  for  music,  but  this  was  the  most  astounding  example 
of  all. 

Personally,  I  am  music  deaf,  yet  one  Christmas,  early  in 
my  reporter's  days,  I  wrote  the  topical  songs  for  the  three 
theatres,  and  in  all  three  they  were  sung  with  considerable 
success,  though  I  myself  could  not  tell  if  every  line  were 
sung  out  of  tune.  My  plan  was  very  simple.  I  wholly  dis- 
regarded the  music.  I  just  took  the  words  of  a  popular  song 
and  wrote  a  topical  version  to  the  same  metre. 

A  curious  little  incident  occurred  in  connection  with  one 
of  those  songs.  It  was  sung  by  a  charming  little  married 
lady,  the  wife  of  the  proprietor  of  the  theatre.  Off  the  stage 
she  was  very  quiet  and  shy.  In  the  pantomime  she  was 
"  principal  boy,"  a  lively  and  fascinating  "  Prince  Perfect," 
a  clever  actress,  with  a  delightful  voice.  Indeed,  I  never 
thought  much  of  my  own  song  until  I  heard  her  sing  it. 


304     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

One  evening  when  I  was  alone  in  a  box  in  the  theatre 
the  door  opened,  and  "  Prince  Perfect  "  stepped  in,  sat 
down  beside  me  and  began  to  thank  me  for  my  song.  Her 
costume  was  becoming  but  by  no  means  voluminous.  In 
her  dress  was  she  "  Prince  Perfect,"  the  "  principal  boy  "  ; 
in  manner  was  she  the  gentle  little  lady  I  knew  off  the  stage. 
She  might  have  been  sitting  in  discreet  morning  costume 
in  her  own  drawing-room  with  her  children  round  her,  for 
any  consciousness  she  showed  of  her  scanty  attire.  I  was 
embarrassed  ;  she  was  quite  at  her  ease. 

Amongst  the  actors  who  come  regularly  to  Dublin,  I  con- 
fess a  special  friendship  and  admiration  for  Martin  Harvey. 
He  brings  the  glamour  of  old  romance  on  the  stage.  "  Senti- 
mental," I  would  call  his  acting,  had  not  the  word  been 
"  soiled  by  all  ignoble  use."  His  appearance,  his  gestures, 
every  inflexion  of  his  sympathetic  voice,  are  replete  with 
sentiment,  lofty  or  pathetic. 

He  was  always  a  great  favourite  with  the  Dublin  ladies, 
who,  without  distinction  of  age,  from  sixteen  to  sixty,  posi- 
tively adored  him.  More  than  once  I  have  seen  him  in  my 
drawing-room  an  unwilling  Bunthorne  amid  a  swarm  of 
love-sick  worshippers,  terribly  embarrassed  by  the  persistent 
and  universal  idolatry. 

On  one  occasion,  I  remember,  I  introduced  him  to  a  row 
of  youthful  adorers,  ranged  together  on  a  drawing-room 
sofa.  He  simply  bowed  his  acknowledgment  and  turned 
away.  I  saw  tears  start  into  their  beautiful  eyes,  and  my 
heart  was  moved. 

"  Harvey,"  I  said  reproachfully,  "  if  I  had  a  row  of  lovely 
adorers,  the  very  least  I  would  do  would  be  to  shake  hands 
with  them."  The  kindly  actor  instantly  made  the  girls 
happy  by  the  touch  of  his  hand. 

On  another  occasion  I  introduced  him  to  a  very  young 
and  pretty  girl  by  a  wrong  name.  Her  name,  let  us  say, 
was  Miss  X.  I  introduced  her  as  Miss  Y. 

"  Oh,  how  could  you !  "  she  wailed  as  he  turned  away. 
"  Now  he  will  always  think  of  me  as  Miss  Y." 

I  instantly  rectified  the  error. 

"  Mind,  Harvey,"  I  said  when  I  had  introduced  him  cor- 


STILL  ON  THE  STAGE  305 

rectly,  "  you  are  always  to  think  of  this  young  lady  as 
Miss  X." 

The  finest  recitation  I  have  ever  heard  was  Harvey's 
rendering  of  Tennyson's  "  Edward  Grey."  I  had  read  the 
lines  often,  thinking  them  rather  trite  and  commonplace. 
When  Harvey  recited  them  I  realized  for  the  first  time  the 
infinite  tenderness  and  passion  of  which  they  were  capable. 

Quite  recently  Mr.  Martin  Harvey  gave  me  the  surprise 
of  my  life.  I  had  heard  great  things  of  his  performance  in 
"  (Edipus  Rex,"  outside  Shakespeare  assuredly  the  greatest 
tragedy  ever  written.  It  was  the  only  Greek  play  I  had 
ever  read  in  the  original,  and  reading  it  twenty  lines  at  a 
time  with  the  aid  of  a  dictionary  and  grammar  I  was  hardly 
in  a  position  to  appreciate  its  beauty.  Since  then,  however, 
I  have  read  it  many  times  in  various  translations,  with  ever- 
growing admiration  of  the  tremendous  and  overwhelming 
power.  The  Unities,  that  always  seemed  to  me  artificial 
fetters  which  hampered  the  genius  of  the  dramatists  of 
France,  here  lend  directness  and  simplicity  to  the  awful 
tragedy  which  grows  like  a  cloud  with  little  gleams  of  light 
through  the  gloom  till  the  whole  sky  is  darkened  and  the 
storm  bursts. 

In  all  humility  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  think  that 
Mr.  Martin  Harvey  was  the  actor  for  the  part.  In  tender- 
ness, pathos  and  romantic  melodrama  I  knew  him  to  be 
supreme,  but  I  did  not  credit  him  with  the  dignity  and 
power  that  (Edipus  imperatively  demanded. 

The  moment  he  appeared  on  the  stage,  stately  and  master- 
ful in  the  midst  of  imminent  calamity,  a  demi-god  of  old 
Greek  legends,  by  word  and  gesture  dominating  the  panic- 
stricken  crowd,  I  realized  my  mistake,  and  my  admiration 
grew  to  an  almost  painful  intensity  during  the  progress  of 
the  play.  In  a  long  experience  I  have  seen  nothing  more 
magnificent  on  the  stage. 

I  am,  as  I  have  said,  not  musical,  and  only  was  once 
brought  into  close  contact  with  a  great  musician.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  the  famous  violinist,  Kubelik,  when  I  first 
met  him  little  more  than  a  boy,  though  then  in  the  plenitude 
of  his  power  and  fame.  Some  little  time  before,  he  told  me, 


306     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

he  had  received  twenty-two  thousand  dollars  for  four  con- 
certs in  New  York — over  a  thousand  pounds  a  concert. 

He  had  a  very  charming  story  to  tell  of  Lord  Dudley,  who 
was  at  the  time  Viceroy  in  Ireland,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
think  the  most  popular  Viceroy  that  ever  held  Court  in 
Dublin. 

"  I  was  coming  from  Marienbad,"  said  Kubelik,  "  and, 
stupid  as  I  was,  I  forgot  to  have  a  sleeping-carriage  for  my 
wife — you  know,  I  am  only  just  married.  Your  Viceroy, 
Lord  Dudley,  heard  of  it,  and  he  insisted  on  giving  up  his 
own  sleeping-car.  '  I  am  an  old  traveller/  he  said  to  me. 
'  I  can  bear  the  hardship  of  the  journey  better  than  a  young 
bride/  " 

Kubelik  told  me  he  was  never  fatigued  by  playing;  his 
violins  were  friends  of  whose  talk  he  never  tired. 

I  wonder  what  fatalists  would  say  of  the  grim  little  story 
which  I  heard  from  Mr.  Harry  Nicholls  about  the  actor 
Terriss,  who  was  murdered  on  his  way  to  the  theatre. 

"  I  was  playing,"  said  Nicholls,  "in  '  Secret  Service ' 
with  poor  Terriss  at  the  Adelphi  when  he  was  murdered. 
I  saw  him  an  instant  after  the  blow  was  struck,  and  I  had 
to  break  the  news  to  his  son.  The  poor  young  fellow  came 
right  through  London  with  newsboys  in  every  street  yelling 
the  details  of  the  murder.  But  he  never  noticed  anything. 
The  first  hint  he  got  was  from  my  lips.  It  was  the  most 
terrible  ordeal  of  my  life.  I  trust  in  the  time  to  come  I 
shall  have  nothing  to  face  like  that.  Poor  Terriss  was  the 
kindest-hearted  and  most  lovable  man  in  the  world.  He 
had  a  curious  morbid  feeling  about  death.  He  used  to  jest 
on  this  subject  with  jests  that  seemed  more  than  half 
earnest.  The  night  before  the  murder  he  laid  himself  out 
stiff  in  the  green-room,  saying,  '  This  is  how  I  shall  look/ 
The  next  night  I  saw  him  lying  there  dead." 

In  the  old  days  in  Dublin  during  the  Italian  opera  it  was 
the  custom  for  the  amateurs  in  the  audience  to  entertain 
the  theatre  with  comic  songs  in  the  intervals  between  the 
scenes,  and  very  often  when  the  curtain  went  up  the  pro- 
fessionals on  the  stage  had  to  wait  until  some  popular 
amateur  among  the  audience  had  finished  his  song. 


STILL  ON  THE  STAGE  307 

A  couple  of  verses  of  one  characteristic  specimen  of  those 
popular  ditties  still  lingers  in  my  memory,  when  so  many 
things  better  worth  remembering  have  escaped  : — 

As  I  was  sitting  gay,  careless  and  free, 
On  the  very  top  bench  of  the  top  gallery, 
I  spied  a  fair  lady,  all  beauteous  was  she, 
Down  in  the  dress  circle  a-smiling  at  me. 

Oh,  red  was  the  hue  of  her  opera  cloak, 

And  redder  the  blush  of  her  cheek  as  I  spoke. 

Her  intellect  bright,  for  she  laughed  at  my  wit 

When  I  shouted,  "  Remove  the  white  hat  from  the  pit." 

Occasionally  I  have  been  the  witness  of  a  humorous  inter- 
lude, wholly  unrehearsed,  on  the  Dublin  stage.  On  one 
occasion  I  was  present,  in  my  youth,  at  a  somewhat  primi- 
tive performance  of  "  Macbeth,"  most  realistically  produced, 
at  one  of  the  minor  theatres.  The  stage  manager's  notion  of 
realism  was  to  suspend  a  blood-clotted  dagger  by  an  in- 
visible thread  from  the  ceiling,  in  order  to  give  greater 
reality  to  the  horror  of  Macbeth.  But  at  the  last  moment 
the  dagger  could  not  be  found,  and  a  long  oyster-knife  was 
substituted. 

"  Is  this  a  dagger  that  I  see  before  me  ?  "  began  the 
Scottish  chieftain,  when  a  shrill  voice  from  the  gallery  in- 
terrupted, "  D n  well  you  know  it  is  an  oyster-knife  !  " 

And  at  that  unfortunate  interruption  the  tragic  muse  fled 
from  the  theatre  for  the  night. 

On  another  occasion  Mr.  Rousbey  was  playing  the  part 
of  Cardinal  Pole  in  "  'Twixt  Axe  and  Crown  "  with  singular 
ability.  At  the  rising  of  the  curtain  he  was  discovered 
seated  at  a  table  in  a  meditative  attitude.  There  was  a 
moment's  dead  silence  in  the  theatre,  then  from  the  gallery 
a  shrill  cock-crow  was  heard. 

Rousbey  leaped  from  his  chair  and  advanced  to  the  foot- 
lights threateningly. 

"  If,"  he  said,  "  the  person  who  has  been  guilty  of  that 
interruption  ventures  to  repeat  it  I  will  have  him  removed 
from  the  theatre,  and  will  myself  appear  against  him  in 
the  police-court  to-morrow."  Then,  without  a  pause,  he 
added,  in  a  voice  of  solemn  menace,  "  Though  lightly  wears 
Elizabeth  her  head,  I  will  contrive  to  bring  it  to  the  block." 


308     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

The  coincidence  of  the  double  threat  was  too  much  for 
the  audience,  and  a  prolonged  roar  of  laughter  gave  Cardinal 
Pole  further  time  for  meditation. 

Barry  Sullivan  was  in  his  time  the  chief  and  special 
favourite  of  a  Dublin  audience.  No  other  impressed  them 
so  thoroughly  with  the  reality  of  his  performance.  On  one 
occasion  he  was  playing  Othello — I  forget  who  was  lago, 
but  he  had  a  rough  time  of  it — when  at  last,  in  a  frenzy  of 
passion,  the  stalwart  Moor  seized  his  tempter  by  the  throat 
and  shook  him  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat,  and  an  applauding 
shout  rang  out  from  the  gallery  : 

"  That's  right,  Barry  !    Strangle  the  devil,  strangle  him  !  " 

One  other  illustration  how  a  quick  wit  saved  the  situa- 
tion concludes  my  stage  reminiscences.  I  do  not  claim  to 
have  been  an  eye-witness.  I  tell  the  tale  as  it  was  told  to 
me  by  a  colleague  who  was  present,  or  said  he  was.  The 
alleged  hero  was  no  less  a  person  than  Henry  Irving,  long 
before  he  became  famous.  He  was  playing  the  villain  in  a 
sensational  melodrama.  In  the  last  scene  he  attempts  to 
break  out  of  prison,  but  just  as  he  had  filed  the  bars  and 
was  preparing  his  leap  for  freedom  the  report  of  a  gun  is 
heard  outside,  and  he  falls  back  lifeless  into  his  cell. 

On  the  night  in  question  the  gun  refused  to  go  off.  There 
was  an  anxious  moment  as  the  villain  stood  poised  at  the 
window  waiting  vainly  to  be  shot.  Then  suddenly,  without 
apparent  cause,  he  fell  backwards  on  the  floor  of  his  cell. 

"  Gracious  Heaven,"  he  cried  aloud  as  he  writhed  in  his 
death  agony,  "  I've  swallowed  the  file  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
ROME  AND  AMERICA 

Leo  XIII — An  awe-inspiring  Pope — An  old  cap  for  a  new — The  World's 
Press  Parliament — An  invitation — An  interview  in  mid-ocean — Rear- 
Admiral  Melville — Judgments  and  prophesies — The  St.  Louis  Ex- 
position. 

A1ONG  the  many  remarkable  men  I  have  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet,  I  was  most  profoundly  impressed 
by  Pope  Leo  XIII.  In  face  and  figure  he  was  awe-inspiring 
as  a  being  from  another  world.  He  made  the  great  mystery 
of  which  he  is  the  embodiment  easy  of  belief ;  he  realized 
the  ideal  of  Christ's  vicegerent  on  earth  with  supreme 
dominion  over  the  souls  of  men. 

I  had  gone  to  Rome  on  a  pilgrimage,  personally  conducted 
by  the  late  Prior  Glynn,  who  had  been  for  many  years 
resident  in  the  Eternal  City  and  knew  its  wonders  as  he 
knew  the  palm  of  his  hand.  The  pilgrims  were  fortunate 
enough  to  have  a  special  Mass  said  for  them  by  his  Holiness 
in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  whose  boy  choir  is  the  finest  in  the 
world,  and  on  whose  ceiling  is  displayed  the  masterpiece  of 
Michael  Angelo.  But  neither  the  choir  nor  the  painting 
could  for  a  moment  divert  the  eye  or  ear  from  the  wonderful 
old  man  who  was  the  central  figure  of  the  scene.  He  seemed 
more  spirit  than  human,  and  carried  us  with  him  into  that 
other  world  to  which  he  belonged.  His  face  and  hands  were 
so  thin  as  to  be  almost  transparent,  yet  he  did  not  give  the 
idea  of  emaciation.  The  body  was  forgotten,  while  the 
soul  shone  out  in  eyes  wonderfully  large  and  luminous  in 
which  his  whole  life  was  concentrated.  It  would  hardly 
have  surprised  us  if,  when  he  lifted  his  thin  white  hands  at 
the  Consecration,  he  had  risen  into  the  air  and  vanished 
from  our  eyes. 

309 


310     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

An  audience  followed  the  Mass,  at  which  the  good- 
hearted  Prior  must  have  given  me  a  character  far  beyond 
my  deserts,  for  I  knew  no  word  of  Italian  and  was  com- 
pletely at  his  mercy.  Certainly  the  Pope  was  most  gracious. 
His  smile,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  touch  of  his  hand  on 
my  head,  filled  me  with  a  veneration  that  I  cannot  even 
try  to  describe.  Though  not  more  used  than  most  men 
to  the  melting  mood,  I  cried  like  a  child  during  the 
audience. 

It  is  fair  to  confess  that  at  least  one  of  the  pilgrims,  an 
American  priest,  was  not  so  overpowered  by  the  pontifical 
presence.  On  the  eve  of  the  audience  the  Reverend  Yankee 
procured  a  white  biretta,  the  kind  worn  by  the  Pope,  and 
carried  it  with  him  to  the  audience.  Afterwards  he  was 
allowed  to  substitute  the  new  cap  for  the  old  which  the 
Pope  had  worn  during  Mass,  an  exchange  almost  as  profit- 
able as  the  change  of  new  lamps  for  old  in  the  story  of 
Aladdin.  Half  an  hour  later  he  was  offered  by  a  com- 
patriot four  hundred  dollars  for  the  Pope's  biretta.  A 
few  silver  hairs  found  in  the  lining  were  valued  at  ten 
dollars  each. 

Some  years  after  my  visit  to  Rome  I  had  the  following 
invitation  to  represent  Ireland  at  the  World's  Press  Parlia- 
ment at  the  St.  Louis  Exposition  : — 

"  ST.  Louis,  U.S.A., 

"  February  i8th,  1904. 

"  Office  of  the  President. 

"  Mr.  McD.  BODKIN, 

"  52,  Upper  Mount,  Dublin,  Ireland. 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  The  Universal  Exposition  and  Executive  Com- 
mittee of  the  World's  Press  Parliament  have  united  in 
extending  a  formal  and  cordial  invitation  to  you  to  do  them 
the  honour  to  participate,  with  other  distinguished  leaders 
of  the  world's  journalism,  in  the  World's  Press  Parlia- 
ment, to  be  held  at  the  Universal  Exposition,  16-21  May, 
1904. 


ROME  AND  AMERICA  311 

"  I  trust  that  I  may  be  favoured  with  an  early  reply,  and 
that  you  will  be  present  at  this  greatest  assemblage  of  the 
world's  journalists  ever  known. 

"  I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  assurance  of  high  consideration, 
"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  DAVID  R.  FRANCIS, 
"  President" 

There  is  little  to  be  told  of  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic, 
which  has  gradually  come  to  mean  no  more  than  a  week's 
stay  at  a  very  first-class  hotel.  It  was  the  unfortunate  Oscar 
Wilde,  if  I  remember  right,  that  was  "  disappointed  "  with 
the  Atlantic.  I  do  not  share  his  disappointment.  I  cannot 
understand  it.  As  our  huge  vessel  forces  her  way  through 
the  thundering  waves,  crushing  them  into  clouds  of  white 
foam  at  the  bow,  the  sunshine  striking  through  sets  a  score 
of  broken  rainbow  curves  shining  and  dancing  in  the  foam. 
To  right  and  left  the  waves  go  by  in  rushing  hills  and 
valleys — deep  blue  in  the  sunshine,  dark  slate  colour  in  the 
shadow.  Now  and  again  the  wind  catches  a  huge  breaker, 
twists  and  shapes  it  to  a  pointed  cone  and  drives  a  spout  of 
white  foam  like  smoke  into  the  air.  For  one  moment  the 
light,  striking  through  the  peak  of  the  cone,  changes  it  to 
a  pellucid  green,  clear  and  bright  as  a  flawless  emerald. 
The  effect  is  indescribably  beautiful. 

Most  amazing  of  all  is  the  illusion  as  you  step  from  one 
of  the  hall  doors  on  to  the  deck.  The  whole  wide  circle  of 
the  ocean,  right  away  to  the  distant  horizon,  seems  to 
slowly  swell  and  sink  with  the  swell  of  the  vessel. 

But  I  must  not  dwell  on  views  which  everyone  who  has 
crossed  the  ocean  in  a  big  liner  has  had  the  same  charice  of 
enjoying.  I  only  allude  to  the  journey  because  I  met  in 
mid-ocean  a  very  remarkable  man  with  whom  I  had  many 
chats  before  we  touched  land  on  the  other  side — Rear- 
Admiral  Melville. 

He  was  the  man  who  was  responsible  for  the  fleet  which 
made  such  short  work  of  the  Spaniards.  He  was  the  Chief 
of  the  American  Navy  Construction  before  the  war,  during 
the  war  and  after  it. 


312     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

The  Rear-Admiral  is  not  merely  a  remarkable,  but  a 
remarkable-looking  man — the  two  things  do  not  always  go 
together.  A  massive  man,  broad-shouldered  and  big-limbed, 
with  a  leonine  head  and  a  face  strong,  handsome,  yet  benevo- 
lent :  a  great  flowing  white  beard  gives  a  patriarchal  sug- 
gestion to  his  appearance. 

When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  sitting  in  an  easy  wicker 
chair  in  the  corridor  facing  the  broad  stairs  that  led  to  the 
dining-room.  I  plopped  down  in  another  beside  him,  and 
opened  the  conversation  with  a  remark  about  the  weather, 
which  on  sea  is  even  a  more  fruitful  and  piquant  topic  than 
on  shore. 

The  steward  had  told  me  (for  I  sleep  well)  that  it  had  blown 
a  pretty  gale  during  the  night. 

But  the  Rear- Admiral  made  nothing  of  it. 

"  You  can  hardly  call  it  a  breeze,"  he  said,  "  to  a  big 
vessel  like  this  ;  the  bigger  a  ship  the  better." 

"  In  peace  or  in  war  ?  " 

"  In  peace  and  in  war,"  retorted  the  Rear- Admiral 
sturdily. 

"  Yet  some  people  seem  to  think,"  I  ventured  to  say, 
"  that  in  war,  at  least,  the  future  is  with  the  small,  swift 
vessel — the  alert  wasp  with  the  torpedo  for  a  sting,  whose 
sting  is  fatal  to  the  biggest  ship  afloat." 

The  big  man  was  roused  at  this  heresy. 

"  Sheer  nonsense  !  "  he  replied.  "  The  newspaper  men 
may  say  those  things  and  the  newspaper  readers  believe 
them,  but  that  doesn't  make  them  true.  You  will  get  more 
fight  out  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  than  out  of  ten 
thousand,  and  a  hundred  times  more  out  of  a  million.  We 
are  building  big  vessels  —  eighteen-,  nineteen-,  twenty- 
thousand  tonners,  and  will  keep  on  building  them.  England 
is  doing  the  same  ;  she  shows  her  sense  in  that.  The  bigger 
the  vessel  "  (he  repeated  emphatically)  "  the  better." 

"  The  recent  encounters  between  Russia  and  Japan  hardly 
prove  that,"  I  hinted  submissively.  The  war  between 
Russia  and  Japan  was  in  full  swing  at  the  time. 

"  They  prove  nothing  at  all,"  he  answered,  "  except  that 
the  Russians  were  careless  or  reckless,  or  both.  Their  navy 


ROME  AND  AMERICA  313 

was  disabled  in  the  first  encounters.  The  Japs  are  prompt, 
brave  and  ingenious,  no  doubt,  but  the  result  was  less  the 
Japs'  credit  than  the  Russians'  fault." 

"  But  the  torpedo-boats  played  a  great  part  in  those 
engagements  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  But  a  big  vessel  can  deal  with 
torpedo-boats  if  she  is  properly  handled." 

"  And  the  mines  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  mines  are  a  danger,  no  doubt,  to  little  vessels 
and  big.  The  chief  danger  of  a  mine  lies  in  the  fact  that 
the  vessel's  magazines  of  explosives  are  kept  as  near  the 
bottom  as  possible  to  avoid  the  risk  of  explosion  from  shot, 
shell  or  torpedo.  But  their  position  renders  them  all  the 
more  easily  exploded  by  a  mine.  But  this  danger,  too,  may 
be  evaded." 

"  Are  the  submarines  really  the  vessel  of  the  future  ?  " 
I  asked,  an  interesting  question  in  view  of  recent  discussion. 

The  Rear-Admiral  grew  splendidly  indignant  and  de- 
nounced the  submarines  vigorously.  "  They  are  worthless, 
worse  than  worthless,"  he  said ;  "  they  can  never  be  of 
any  use." 

His  opinion  was  identical  with  that  of  Mr.  Wells,  the 
novelist  and  scientific  prophet.  The  visionary  theorist  and 
the  practical  expert  were  for  once  hi  absolute  accord. 

"  What  can  the  blind  things  do,  anyway  ?  "  he  growled 
thunderously,  "  as  they  go  blundering  about  in  the  dark, 
not  seeing  beyond  their  own  noses  ?  I  always  did  my  best 
to  keep  them  out  of  the  American  Navy.  A  sneak  vessel 
should  be  quick,  alert,  keen-sighted,  rapid  in  approach  and 
in  flight.  This  is  what  the  torpedo-boat  is,  and  this  is 
exactly  what  the  submarine  isn't — blundering  along  in 
the  dark  at  the  rate  of  eight  knots  an  hour  at  the 
outside." 

"  Have  they  not  some  contrivance  to  enable  them  to  see 
through  the  water  ?  " 

"  Oh,  aye  "  (with  fine  contempt),  "  a  lot  of  contrivances. 
We  tried  them  all  in  our  navy,  and  flung  them  away. 
England  showed  us  the  other  day  how  a  submarine  should 
J>e  dealt  with.  It  should  be  rammed.  She  didn't  mean  it 


314     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

a  bit.  It  was  her  own  submarine  she  rammed,  but  the 
lesson  was  good,  all  the  same.  The  submarines  have  to 
come  to  the  surface,  as  whales  have,  to  blow.  They  cannot 
shoot  then ;  they  cannot  use  their  torpedo-tubes ;  they  can 
do  nothing,  while  the  enemy  goes  straight  in  and  rams  them." 

He  spoke  with  the  warmth  of  active  hostility.  He 
rammed  them  with  emphasis,  as  if  he  had  used  another 
word  beginning  with  a  big  "  D  "  instead. 

I  switched  the  talk  on  to  another  tack. 

"  You  think  the  Japanese  Navy  will  win  ?  " 

"  I  think  they  have  won.  They  have  the  Russian  Navy 
on  the  run.  Indeed,  I  don't  know  what  navy  the  Russians 
have  got  to  fight  with." 

"  You  don't  think  that  ends  the  war  ?  " 

"  No,  sir"  (with  great  emphasis).  "  I  think  the  Russians 
will  win  in  the  end,  and  I  hope  it.  They  are,  at  least,  as 
good  fighters  as  the  Japs,  and  the  numbers  must  tell. 
Besides,  they  have  better  horses  and  are  better  horsemen. 
They  will  come  out  on  top." 

"  I  thought  American  sympathy  was  with  the  Japs?  " 

"  Don't  believe  it.  The  American  papers  may  sympathize, 
but  not  the  thoughtful  Americans.  They  see  what  it  would 
mean — the  East  against  the  West,  invasion  like  the  Huns  in 
the  old  days,  only  more  terrible,  more  permanent. 

"  A  triumph  in  Russia,"  he  said,  "  would  secure  the  Japs' 
dominion  in  China.  What  would  happen  if  China,  with  her 
three  or  four  hundred  millions  of  men,  should  wake  up  as 
Japan  has  wakened  up  ?  I  visited  Japan  about  forty  years 
ago.  They  were  savages  then,  sir.  Most  of  them  had  no 
clothes  except  a  loin-cloth.  They  hadn't  a  vessel  bigger 
than  the  boats  that  are  hanging  at  our  davits.  Their 
weapons  were  two-handed  swords.  I  bought  a  lot  of  them 
when  I  visited  the  place  as  a  young  man.  You  could  get  a 
good  sword  then  for  three  or  four  dollars  that  would  cost 
a  hundred  now." 

"  A  profitable  hi  vestment,  I  should  think  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  gave  them  away  to  my  friends.  Swords  are  not 
as  plentiful  now — they  have  other  weapons.  Japan  went 
to  the  front  with  a  jump.  Why  cannot  China  do  the  same, 


ROME  AND  AMERICA  315 

with  Japan  to  teach  her  and  help  her  ?  It  would  be  a 
dangerous  outlook  for  the  West.  Let  me  say  right  here, 
I  don't  want  it." 

My  hearty  concurrence  in  this  view  seemed  to  please  him, 
and  we  interchanged  cards.  My  offer  of  a  cigar  he  refused. 
The  Rear- Admiral  had  "  no  use  for  tobacco."  Our  talk 
passed  to  less  momentous  topics.  He  told  me  that  drunken- 
ness had  almost  disappeared  from  the  States,  and  even 
moderate  drinking  was  on  the  decline.  He  remembered  the 
time  when  drunkenness  was  the  fashion  down  South.  But 
even  down  South  there  was  little  of  it  now. 

I  asked  did  they  mean  to  keep  on  their  President. 
'  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Roosevelt  is  sure  to  win  at  the  next 
election,  and  a  good  thing  too.  But  if  the  Democrats  con- 
centrate, as  I  think  they  will,  on  Chief  Justice  Parker — 
right  good  man,  Parker ! — he  will  have  a  pretty  close  run. 
Your  people  generally  go  Democrat.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
why,  except  to  help  the  under  dog.  That's  Irish  all  the 
time,  and  we  like  them  for  it." 

The  Rear-Admiral's  panegyric  of  big  ships  is  now  in 
question.  Since  then  they  have  had  a  great  boom,  but 
there  has  come  a  reaction,  and  the  despised  submarine,  and 
not  the  dreadnought,  is  now  acclaimed  the  warship  of  the 
future. 

I  don't  mean  to  say  much  of  the  St.  Louis  Exposition, 
the  biggest  the  world  has  ever  seen  or  is  likely  to  see.  It 
was  American,  it  was  colossal,  and  everything  connected 
with  it  was  colossal.  The  "  Inside  Inn,"  where  I  put  up, 
was  in  itself  one  of  the  chief  wonders  of  the  place.  I  do  not 
know  the  precise  number  of  rooms  in  the  hotel — I  doubt  if 
they  have  been  counted.  My  room  was  numbered  6402,  and 
that,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  was  about  midway  in  the 
total.  The  space  of  the  dining-rooms  was  to  be  measured 
not  by  feet  or  yards,  but  by  acres  ;  I  had  almost  said  miles. 

Yet  this  huge  structure,  by  many  degrees  the  biggest 
hotel  the  world  has  ever  seen,  was  constructed  in  a  single 
year,  and  in  a  year  more  had  wholly  vanished.  Vast  as  was 
the  accommodation,  every  day  hundreds  of  visitors,  if  not 
thousands,  were  sent  away  disappointed.  The  great  piazza 


316     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

in  front  was  daily  thronged  with  ten  thousand  representa- 
tives of  the  nationalities  of  the  world. 

I  was  delighted  to  find  Ireland  so  popular  in  the  States. 
An  American  Pressman  guesses  my  nationality  and  ques- 
tions me  with  inoffensive  frankness.  Thereupon  he  produces 
his  card ;  I  respond  with  mine.  He  then  formally  intro- 
duces me  to  his  relatives  and  such  friends  as  are  procurable 
at  short  notice.  We  all  interchange  cards.  Each  in  turn 
cordially  shakes  my  hand  and  utters  the  formula,  "  I  am 
vurry  proud  to  meet  you,  sir,"  and  so  the  ceremony  con- 
cludes. I  brought  about  a  thousand  visiting  cards  home 
with  me  from  the  States. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE  WORLD'S  PRESS   PARLIAMENT 

A  brilliant  reception — Secretary  Hay — American  oratory — Japan  and 
Russia — Princeton  students  at  play — The  college  yell — "  Tiger !  Tiger !  " 
— A  remarkable  vice-president. 

ALMOST  immediately  after  my  arrival  at  St.  Louis  I  was 
bidden  to  a  grand  reception  of  the  foreign  repre- 
sentatives of  the  World's  Press  Parliament  to  meet 
the  Hon.  John  Hay,  State  Secretary  for  the  Republic. 
The  great  city  of  palaces  was  ablaze  with  millions  of 
electric  lamps  that  emulated  sunshine.  The  broad  inter- 
vening lagoons  were  sheets  of  silver.  The  cloudless  moon 
paled  its  ineffectual  fire  in  the  glare  of  manufactured 
daylight. 

The  ceremonial,  to  my  unaccustomed  eyes,  was  very 
strange.  "  The  receiving  line,"  as  it  was  called,  headed  by 
Secretary  Hay,  drew  up  in  a  small  antechamber  and  stood 
and  waited  patiently  while  two  thousand  five  hundred 
guests  filed  slowly  past.  Entering  at  one  door,  they  were 
introduced  in  rapid  succession,  shook  hands  with  the  whole 
"  receiving  line,"  numbering  about  a  dozen,  and  disappeared 
into  the  great  halls. 

Tea  was  served  by  a  swarm  of  Japanese  girls  in  gorgeous 
costumes,  making  bright  splashes  of  colour  in  the  crowd. 
With  each  cup  they  presented  a  tiny  nosegay  of  the  tea 
plant.  A  Russian  prince,  who  was  one  of  the  vice-presidents 
of  the  World's  Press  Parliament,  was  present  at  the  function. 
I  wonder  if  he  enjoyed  his  tea. 

There  and  elsewhere  at  the  Fair  I  was  introduced  to 
several  Japs  with  unpronounceable  and  unspellable  names. 
They  were  all  the  very  embodiment  of  bland  courtesy.  The 
impressions  produced  were  so  admirably  described  in  the 

317 


3i8     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

St.  Louis  Daily  Globe  Democrat,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a 
Republican  organ,  that  I  am  irresistibly  tempted  to  quote 
a  few  lines  : — 

"  There  is  something  very  striking  and  radical  about  the 
Japanese  grin.  It  is  employed  with  such  frequency  and 
such  diffuseness.  Is  it  propitiatory  in  its  character,  tem- 
peramental, or  does  it  arise  from  genuine  amiability  ?  You 
ask  the  man  in  charge  of  the  exhibit  a  question,  and  he  dis- 
plays a  toothsome  smile.  You  speak  to  a  workman  finishing 
a  booth,  and  his  face  broadens  like  a  Jack-o'-lantern. 
Conversation  is  all  carried  on  with  the  most  open  counte- 
nance. Is  it  as  superficial  as  the  American  society  smile 
which  works  by  draw-strings  ?  The  Japanese  employ  smiles 
with  the  same  lavishness  they  employ  in  their  embroidery 
and  decorating  their  pottery.  As  a  means  towards  an  end 
they  are  extraordinarily  valuable,  and  their  cheapness  must 
also  appeal  to  the  thrifty  streak  in  the  Japanese  national 
character." 

The  World's  Press  Parliament  held  its  first  session  in  the 
Great  Festival  Hall,  a  huge  building  with  a  dome  like 
St.  Peter's,  described  as  "  the  crowning  glory  of  this  miracu- 
lous exposition."  The  hall  was  on  this  occasion  for  the 
first  time  thrown  open  to  the  public.  It  was  brighter  than 
day  with  thousands  of  electric  lights.  The  Press  repre- 
sentatives of  thirty-five  different  nations  were  assembled 
on  the  platform.  The  body  of  the  hall  held  four  thousand 
interested  spectators  of  the  proceedings.  In  the  pit  and 
galleries  were  the  editors  and  literary  celebrities  of  every 
State  and  great  city  in  the  vast  Republic. 

At  the  first  meeting  of  the  World's  Press  Parliament  the 
chief  speaker  was  the  then  Secretary  of  State,  the  Hon. 
John  Hay.  Very  different  is  American  oratory,  of  which 
I  then  had  my  first  taste,  from  the  British,  as  exemplified 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  The  Americans  go  in  for 
"  eloquence,"  they  are  much  more  flowery  and  more  fluent. 
They  run  their  sentences  together  in  a  way  that  must  make 
it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  a  shorthand  writer  to  hang 
on  to  them.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  that  verbatim  re- 
porting is  not  in  vogue  in  the  States. 


THE  WORLD'S  PRESS  PARLIAMENT        319 

Hay's  peroration  was  very  powerful.  "  In  the  name  of 
the  President,"  he  said,  "  writer,  soldier  and  statesman, 
eminent  in  all  three  professions  and  in  all  equally  an  advo- 
cate of  justice,  peace  and  goodwill,  I  bid  you  a  cordial 
welcome  with  the  prayer  that  this  meeting  of  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  world's  intelligence  may  be  fruitful  in 
advantage  to  the  Press  of  all  nations  and  may  bring  us 
somewhat  nearer  to  the  dawn  of  the  day  of  peace  on  earth 
and  goodwill  towards  men.  Let  us  remember  that  we  are 
met  to  celebrate  the  transfer  of  one  nation  to  another  with- 
out the  firing  of  one  shot,  without  the  shedding  of  one  drop 
of  blood.  If  the  Press  of  the  world  would  adopt  and  persist 
in  the  high  resolve  that  war  should  be  no  more,  the  clangour 
of  arms  would  cease  from  the  rising  of  the  sun  to  its  going 
down,  and  we  could  fancy  that  at  last  our  ears,  no  longer 
stunned  by  the  din  of  armies,  might  hear  the  morning 
stars  singing  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouting 
for  joy." 

I  had  myself  the  honour  to  deliver  the  opening  address 
at  the  last  session,  on  "  The  World's  Press  Parliament  and 
its  Functions,"  and  I  have  to  make  grateful  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  kindly  way  hi  which  the  address  was  received 
by  the  Press  of  St.  Louis.  One  extract  will  suffice  from 
the  St.  Louis  Globe  Democrat.  It  is  interesting  as  a  word- 
picture  of  the  Japanese  representatives  at  our  Parlia- 
ment : — 

"  One  of  the  speakers  at  the  Press  Parliament  spoke  with 
feeling  and  emphasis  against  the  evil  of  war  in  his  address, 
and,  being  an  Irishman,  it  seems  scarcely  necessary  to  say 
he  spoke  with  eloquence.  There  is  just  a  touch  of  the 
brogue  on  his  tongue,  and  as  he  thundered  forth  '  War-r  is 
murd-her,'  it  was  interesting  to  glance  at  the  faces  of  the 
Japanese  editors  present.  While  they  had  sat  imperturbable 
through  most  of  the  address,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  not  en- 
tirely fathoming  the  Irish  jokes  of  the  speaker  which  had 
preceded  his  philippic  against  war,  they  were  alert  instantly 
when  a  subject  so  near  to  their  almost  constant  thought 
was  brought  into  the  arena.  One  of  them  stroked  and 
pinched  his  cheek  in  manifest  agitation  ;  another  turned 


320 

much  paler  and  whispered  excitedly  to  his  companion ; 
while  a  third  somewhat  unexpectedly  applauded  the 
sentiment  loudly." 

The  most  dramatic  event  of  our  last  meeting  was  the 
delivery  in  succession  of  two  addresses  by  the  representa- 
tives of  Japan  and  Russia.  The  speakers  were  eminently 
typical  of  their  respective  races.  The  Japanese,  Ino  Herado, 
seemed  little  more  than  a  boy — short,  slight,  alert,  intelli- 
gent, with  that  strange  Eastern  face  that  looks  as  if  all  the 
features  had  been  flattened  to  the  surface,  and  the  curious 
turned-up  slits  of  eyes — black,  gleaming,  opaque,  inscru- 
table. He  spoke  of  the  difficulty  of  Press  work  in  Japan, 
where  there  are  as  many  as  forty  thousand  distinct  Chinese 
letters  to  be  set  up,  and  where  the  compositor,  instead  of 
tapping  his  linotype,  or  even  picking  his  type  from  a 
case  in  front  of  him,  has  to  walk  round  a  big  room  in 
search  of  the  particular  letter  he  requires ;  and  he  grew 
fervent  in  his  anticipation  of  the  advent  of  a  more  rational 
system  by  the  adoption  of  the  Roman  alphabet  in  their 
literature. 

The  Japanese,  take  them  one  with  another,  spoke  the 
clearest  and  most  idiomatic  English  of  any  of  the  foreign 
representatives,  and  this  speaker  was  the  best  of  them  all. 
His  voice,  manner,  action,  gesture  were  a  curious  and  ad- 
mirable parody  of  European  oratory,  and  forced  one  to 
remember  that  up  to  this  his  civilization  has  been  largely 
imitative  ;  already  Japan  has  almost  completely  '  learned 
all  that  Europe  has  to  teach,  and  thoroughly  assimilated 
that  knowledge. 

Japan  will  not  stop  there.  There  is  an  ingenuity — an 
originality  of  purpose — in  the  nation  that  forces  it  to  further 
progress,  and  the  startling  question  presents  itself  :  "  What 
next  ?  " 

The  Russian  representative,  Lio  Nobokoff,  was  as  typical 
as  the  Japanese  of  his  own  land — old,  gaunt,  rugged,  with 
long  white  hair  combed  back  from  his  forehead.  He  com- 
plained of  the  Press  restrictions  in  Russia,  for  which  he 
declared  the  Czar  was  in  no  way  responsible.  It  was 
the  lack  of  Free  Press  that  hampered  Russia  in  peace 


THE  WORLD'S   PRESS  PARLIAMENT        321 

and  in  war.  He  invited  the  World's  Press  Parliament 
to  hold  its  next  meeting  in  Moscow,  where  its  presence 
could  not  fail  to  hasten  the  liberation  of  the  Russian 
Press. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  the  Russian  representative 
warmly  applauded  the  Japanese,  and  the  Japanese  the 
Russian,  in  the  delivery  of  their  respective  addresses.  The 
project  of  a  permanent  World's  Press  Parliament  was 
applauded  by  all.  We  had  earnest  invitations  for  our  next 
meeting,  not  merely  to  Moscow  by  the  Russian,  but  to  The 
Hague  by  the  Dutch,  and  to  Athens  by  the  Greek  repre- 
sentatives. 

One  curious  and  characteristic  incident  may  round  off 
this  brief  account  of  the  Exposition.  At  the  close  of  a  great 
banquet  to  the  foreign  representatives  of  the  World's  Press 
Parliament,  Mr.  Johns,  the  editor  of  the  Post  Dispatch, 
carried  me  off  near  midnight  to  "  finish  the  evening  "  with 
"  the  boys  "  of  the  Princeton  University,  who  this  year 
held  their  annual  gathering  from  all  parts  of  the  States  in 
a  great  restaurant  of  the  Exhibition  under  the  "  Alps,"  close 
to  the  Irish  section. 

I  suggested  that  it  was  too  late,  but  he  curtly  overruled 
the  objection  with  the  brief  remark  : 

'  You  don't  know  our  boys." 

Sure  enough,  we  found  the  festivities  still  in  full  swing. 
I  was  introduced  and  had  to  make  a  speech,  and  in  response 
the  full  college  yell  was  given  by  the  company,  closing  with, 
"  Ireland  !  Ireland  !  Ireland  !  " 

A  college  yell  is,  indeed,  a  strange  and  wonderful  institu- 
tion. Its  familiar  sound,  I  am  told,  at  sport  and  festival, 
makes  the  old  man  young  again  in  America. 

"  Tiger  !  Tiger  !  "  is  an  integral  part  of  the  Princeton 
College  yell,  and  the  tiger  is  the  badge  of  the  college.  "  Will 
you  allow  me,"  said  one  of  the  "  boys  "  very  gravely,  after 
I  had  shaken  hands  with  the  president,  "  to  introduce  you 
to  our  vice-president  ?  " 

He  brought  me  to  the  foot  of  the  long  table  where  I  had 
noticed,  with  some  curiosity,  a  big  box  with  a  grating  in 
front.  It  contained  a  huge  sleek,  live  tiger.  The  great 
y 


322     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

monster  seemed  almost  bashful  as  he  rose  and  stretched  his 
elastic  limbs  lazily.  I  wonder  what  he  thought  of  the 
strange  scene  he  had  witnessed  so  quietly  through  that  long 
night  ?  Perhaps  he  had  previously  rather  fancied  himself 
at  yelling,  and  felt  humiliated. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
RIVAL  ATTRACTIONS 

Niagara — A  contrast — The  glories  of  the  Falls — The  woman  who  went 
over — A  farewell  vision — An  episode — A  curious  correspondence — A 
remarkable  girl — Strangers  yet  friends. 

I  AM  quite  conscious  of  the  audacity  of  attempting  to 
describe  Niagara.  The  thing  has  really  been  done  so 
well  and  so  often  that  trite  repetition  seems  inevitable.  But 
no  two  people  see  this  most  tremendous  spectacle  of  physical 
nature  through  the  same  pair  of  eyes.  For  each  there  is  a 
distinct  vision  and  new  delight,  and  if  he  can  put  even 
some  poor  remnant  of  his  bewildering,  overpowering  sensa- 
tions into  words  his  description  must  be,  in  some  degree  at 
least,  original. 

After  a  visit  to  Niagara  the  imagination  feels  the  strain 
of  its  immensity,  its  grandeur,  its  overpowering  force. 
However  high-flown  the  anticipation,  the  reality  surpasses 
it.  The  sublime  picture  possesses — I  had  almost  said 
oppresses — the  imagination,  and  one  is  under  physical  com- 
pulsion to  write  or  talk  about  it. 

I  was  fortunate  in  my  visit,  fortunate  in  the  weather  and 
in  the  manner  of  my  approach.  Instead  of  taking,  as  I 
should  have  done,  the  train  directly  from  Chicago  to  the 
Falls,  I  got  out  at  Buffalo  and  had  a  twenty-mile  ride  in 
an  electric  trolly-car  to  Niagara. 

"  Our  indiscretions  sometimes  serve  us  well  when  our 
deep  schemes  do  fall."  Midway  between  Buffalo  and  the 
Falls  we  passed  through  the  Indian-named  hamlet  of  Tona- 
wanda,  the  most  silent,  sleepy,  sunshiny  spot  in  the  wide 
world.  It  was  the  vivid  description  of  Mary  Wilkins' 
charming  stories  suddenly  realized  to  the  senses.  Keen  as 
was  my  eagerness  to  feast  my  eyes  on  the  Falls,  this  wonder- 
ful village  tempted  me  from  the  car.  The  smooth,  clean 

323 


324     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

roads  and  the  pathways  stretched  long  and  straight  through 
the  lush-green  grass  and  through  the  rows  of  wooden  houses, 
prettily  framed  and  brightly  painted,  with  their  infinite 
variety  of  "  stoop  "  verandah,  porch  and  pillar. 

Unfenced  orchards  were  everywhere  in  the  full  glory  of 
their  spring  vesture,  pink  and  white,  radiant  and  fragrant. 
The  place  was  all  silent  and  seemingly  deserted  as  the  ruins 
of  Babylon.  There  was  no  sound  or  motion  but  the  flutter- 
ing and  song  of  the  big  American  robin,  a  bird  with  the 
plumage  of  our  redbreast,  the  note  of  a  blackbird,  the  shape 
and  more  than  the  bulk  of  a  thrush. 

No  better  preparation  was  possible  than  quiet,  sleepy 
Tonawanda,  calmly  embosomed  in  apple  blossoms  as  a 
contrast  to  the  stormy  rush  and  roar  of  Niagara.  As  we 
swept  closer  in  the  swift  electric  trolly-car  a  low,  earth- 
shaking  sound,  like  the  deep  growl  of  distant  thunder, 
told  me  that  the  great  wonder  of  the  world  was  close  at 
hand. 

I  was  in  luck,  too,  in  my  guide — bright,  alert  and  intelli- 
gent— brimming  over  with  information.  Of  Irish  descent, 
of  course,  I  might  have  fancied  him  an  Irish  jarvey  but  for 
the  faint  twang  that  had  mastered  the  brogue  and  the  quaint 
shape  of  his  American  buggy,  with  an  awning  stretched  taut 
to  ward  off  the  rays  of  the  sun  that  blazed  from  a  cloudless 
sky. 

I  set  out  to  describe  the  Falls.  Now  that  I  have  come 
quite  close  to  the  moment  when  that  tremendous  spectacle 
first  burst  on  my  sight  I  realize  how  impossible  is  the  task. 
Impossible  to  describe  as  it  is  to  forget,  the  first  sight  of 
Niagara  is  an  epoch  in  one's  existence.  From  the  bridge 
to  Goat  Island,  which  cuts  the  river  in  two,  I  had  my 
first  sight  of  the  Rapids,  an  ever  angry  sea,  with  a  heave 
of  green  wave  and  a  splash  of  white  foam  rushing  to 
the  Falls  at  the  speed  of  an  express  train,  dazzling  and 
bewildering  in  their  impetuous  fury.  Many  great  writers 
have  left  it  on  record  that  the  Rapids  were  to  them  more 
wonderful  and  more  awe-inspiring  than  the  cataracts,  and 
a  great  painter  has  chosen  the  Rapids,  not  the  Falls,  as 
the  theme  of  his  historic  picture.  For  myself,  I  confess 


RIVAL  ATTRACTIONS  325 

that,  superb  as  are  the  Rapids,  I  can  find  little  meaning  in 
such  judgment. 

It  was  an  awful  moment,  to  be  remembered  for  a  lifetime, 
when  I  first  caught  a  full  view  of  the  stupendous  glory  of 
the  Falls.  My  driver  and  guide  pointed  to  a  bridle-path 
that  ran  out  zigzag  from  the  road,  and  on  this  I  walked 
alone  to  an  angle  guarded  by  a  stout  iron  railing.  On  either 
side  the  two  great  cataracts  thundered  past.  A  chill  spasm 
of  horror  shot  down  my  spine.  I  could  scarcely  breathe  as 
I  gazed  on  this  spectacle,  too  vast  and  awful  as  it  seemed 
to  be  compassed  by  human  sight  or  thought.  I  had  read 
many  descriptions,  I  had  seen  many  pictures — who  has  not  ? 
— of  Niagara ;  but  the  reality  transcended  the  wildest 
dreams  of  my  imagination. 

It  was  wholly  different  from  anything  I  had  conceived  ; 
with  all  its  colossal  bulk  and  power  there  is  a  majestic 
dignity  wonderfully  impressive  in  this  great  rush  of  water, 
in  striking  contrast  with  the  petulance  of  lesser  waterfalls. 
The  wide,  deep  river,  perpetually  fed  by  five  great  lakes, 
does  not  dash  nor  leap  nor  tumble  from  the  cliffs.  The 
waters  roll  over  the  edge  with  an  even  and  stately  motion. 
Viewed  in  profile,  as  I  first  viewed  them,  one  has  the  vision 
of  a  colossal  cylinder  in  endless  revolution.  In  the  American 
Fall  the  cylinder  is  pure  white,  with  a  greenish  shadow  where 
it  touches  the  cliff.  On  the  Canadian  side,  where  the  water 
is  far  deeper,  the  revolving  cone  is  of  a  translucent  green, 
like  the  sea  in  bright  sunshine,  flecked  here  and  there  with 
streaks  of  foam,  but  soft  and  white  as  carded  wool  when  it 
thunders  into  the  gulf  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  below. 

The  white  clouds  rise  up  three  hundred  feet  from  that 
foaming  gulf  in  strange  and  fantastic  shapes,  touched  here 
and  there  with  broken  curves  of  brilliant  rainbows. 

Fifty  yards  from  the  foot  of  the  Falls  the  water  is  calm 
as  a  fish-pond.  Later  on  in  the  day  I  sailed  in  almost  under 
the  cataract  in  "  The  Maid  of  the  Mist,"  the  little  steamboat 
that  navigates  the  gulf.  The  volume  of  water,  from  the 
impact  of  its  tremendous  weight  and  velocity,  buries  itself 
far  below  the  surface,  flowing  with  a  rapid  undercurrent, 
and  rising  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  rushes  down  a 


326     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

narrow  channel  at  a  speed  of  thirty  miles  an  hour.  In  those 
narrow  Rapids  the  ill-fated  Captain  Webb  was  a  victim  to 
his  own  daring. 

There  are  a  thousand  thrilling  stories  told  about  the  Falls. 
Here  a  man  leaped  from  the  light  suspension  bridge,  two 
hundred  feet  high,  the  biggest  single  arch  in  the  world,  into 
the  gulf  ;  there  the  famous  Blondin  crossed  from  cliff  to 
cliff  on  a  wire  rope.  I  was  pointed  out  a  rock  close  to  the 
cliff's  edge  where  a  sailor  named  Alvory,  wrecked  in  the 
Rapids,  had  clung  for  four-and-twenty  hours  to  a  rock  while 
the  people  on  shore  made  vain  efforts  at  rescue  with  boat  and 
raft,  and  saw  him  at  last  whirled  like  a  straw  over  the  edge 
into  the  abyss.  I  was  told  the  story  of  the  silly  Englishman, 
"  the  Hermit  of  Niagara,"  who  lived  for  six  months  alone 
on  one  of  the  lesser  islands  in  the  Rapids,  and  spent  hours 
daily  hanging  by  his  hands  from  the  bridge  that  spanned 
the  fiercest  current,  dangling  over  the  death  that  waited  for 
him  in  the  wild  water  below,  and  ultimately  caught  him. 

Vague  traditions  of  Red  Indian  days  still  hover  over  the 
place.  They  tell  that  in  those  dim,  distant  times,  the 
Indians,  to  appease  the  powerful  god  of  Niagara,  yearly 
sent  the  fairest  maiden  of  the  tribe  over  the  Falls  in  a  canoe 
to  an  inevitable  death.  How  strangely  this  tradition  re- 
sembles the  maiden  and  dragon  legends  of  the  old  Greeks  ! 
but  here  was  a  monster  that  no  Theseus  could  destroy. 
Dogs  have  gone  over  the  Horseshoe  Fall  and  survived.  The 
guide-books,  however,  unanimously  declare  that  no  human 
being  ever  outlived  that  awful  experience. 

But  the  guide-books  are  wrong.  The  feat  was  attempted 
and  achieved  by  a  woman  of  forty,  who  came  down  the 
Rapids  cased  in  a  stout  oak  case,  and  was  picked  up  in  the 
gulf  under  the  railway  bridge  none  the  worse  for  her  unique 
and  terrible  experience.  I  met  the  lady  herself  in  a  shop 
and  bought  her  photo.  Her  comment  on  the  exploit  was 
laconic.  "  I'm  glad  I  did  it,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  don't  want 
to  do  it  again." 

A  most  touching  story  is  told  of  a  young  father  crossing 
the  bridge  from  Goat  Island,  where  the  Rapid  runs  fiercest 
above  the  Fall.  The  father  playfully  lifted  the  little  girl 


RIVAL  ATTRACTIONS  327 

over  the  railing  that  fences  the  rush  of  boiling  water.  With 
a  sudden  spring  she  broke  from  his  arms  into  the  awful 
current.  He  cried  out,  and  leaped  the  protecting  rail  in 
mad  pursuit.  In  a  flash,  too  swift  for  eye  to  follow,  they 
were  down  the  Rapids  and  over  the  edge,  while  the  young 
wife  and  mother,  widowed  and  childless  in  that  instant,  lay 
fainting  on  the  bridge. 

It  is  hard  to  believe  it — Niagara  once  ran  dry.  Fed,  as 
it  is,  by  five  great  lakes  of  an  average  depth  of  a  thousand 
feet,  dry  weather  or  wet  makes  no  appreciable  difference  in 
the  vast  volume  of  water  that  passes  over.  But  once 
Niagara  ran  dry.  By  an  unprecedented  combination  of 
contending  winds  the  opening  from  Lake  Erie  was  com- 
pletely blocked  with  ice.  In  a  few  hours  the  river  emptied 
its  unrecruited  waters  over  the  Falls,  and  for  a  day  there 
was  no  Niagara.  I  met  an  old  man,  one  of  many  who,  on 
that  memorable  day — 19  March,  1848 — crossed  the  line  of 
the  Falls  dry-foot.  The  American  Falls,  he  told  me,  were 
absolutely  dry.  On  the  Canadian  side  there  was,  here  and 
there,  a  slight  trickle  which  silently  vanished  in  white  foam 
as  it  fell.  Next  day  the  ice-barrier  burst,  and  the  rush  and 
thunder  of  the  Falls  was  renewed. 

It  is  a  thrilling  experience  to  pass  right  under  the  Falls  ; 
from  the  "  Cave  of  the  Winds  "  I  had  a  glance  through 
the  mist  of  the  great  arch  of  gleaming  green  water  that 
sweeps  by  overhead.  Niagara  as  I  last  saw  it  is  still 
vivid  in  my  memory.  I  stood  midway  between  the  two 
Falls.  The  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  dazzling  foam.  Faint, 
and  wavering  at  first,  a  great  rainbow  arch  slowly  formed 
itself,  one  foot  in  Canadian  waters,  one  in  American.  It 
rose  majestically  above  the  tumult,  a  clear,  high  arch  of 
variegated  light,  framing  the  most  tremendous  spectacle  in 
the  great  picture  gallery  of  Nature.  When  I  had  looked 
my  fill  I  closed  my  eyes,  as  I  was  being  driven  to  the  train, 
that  this  might  be  my  last  remembrance  of  Niagara. 

I  had  two  main  objects  in  my  visit  to  America  ;  one  was 
to  see  Niagara,  the  other  requires  a  slight  digression  to 
explain. 

It  happened  that,  twenty  years  before,  a  little  niece  of 


328     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

my  wife  obtained  a  bronze  medal  and  the  glory  of  print 
for  a  paragraph  story  about  a  dead  bird,  which  appeared 
in  the  Children's  Page  of  "  Little  Folks."  A  fortnight  later 
she  got  the  following  letter  from  Vermont : — 

"  MY  DEAR  MADGE, 

"  I  saw  your  name  in  '  Little  Folks/  and  I  thought 
it  might  do  no  harm  to  write  to  you,  as  it  may  be  amusing 
to  both  of  us  if  you  will  correspond  with  me.  I  am  ...  a 
little  American  girl,  fourteen  years  old.  I  have  two  sisters. 
One  is  Anne,  she  is  sixteen  years  old  ;  Amy  is  nine  years 
old ;  they  are  just  as  nice  as  they  can  be.  Anne  is  going 
to  Florida  this  winter,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do 
without  her.  I  have  no  brothers,  and  I  am  glad,  for  I  don't 
like  boys  a  bit — I  think  they  are  bothersome  things. 

"  Have  you  very  deep  snow  in  Ireland  ?  We  have  had 
snow  over  a  foot  deep  this  winter.  But  it  has  thawed  so 
that  it  is  not  so  deep  now.  Sometimes  it  is  three  or  four 
feet  deep  here.  Do  you  take  sleigh  rides  in  Ireland  ?  We 
have  such  fun  sleigh-riding  in  winter.  Do  you  go  to  school  ? 
Amy  goes  to  school,  but  Anne  and  I  have  a  governess.  We 
have  a  little  black-and-tan  dog  named  Billy.  Amy  har- 
nesses him  to  a  small  cart,  and  he  draws  it.  We  have  three 
canaries.  We  call  them  the  Captain,  the  Duchess  and 
Prince  Giglio.  We  have  also  a  large  tortoise-shell  cat. 
When  the  river  was  low  he  used  to  go  down  on  the  stones 
and  catch  fish.  He  used  to  bring  them  to  the  house  alive 
in  his  mouth,  and  we  put  them  into  the  fountain  with  the 
goldfish.  They  are  alive  yet. 

"  In  summer  we  have  a  saddle-horse,  and  have  splendid 
times  riding  on  horseback.  Do  you  sing  ?  I  took  several 
lessons  and  enjoy  them  very  much.  I  have  been  taking 
them  since  last  June.  Anne  can  play  nicely  on  the  piano. 
Do  you  take  music  lessons  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  Queen 
Victoria  or  the  Prince  of  Wales  ?  I  threw  a  bouquet  to 
President  Hayes  once.  There  is  a  village  near  here  where 
Garfield  used  to  teach.  We  have  driven  through  the  village 
several  times,  but  we  cannot  decide  at  which  school  it  was. 
Please  write  soon.  ." 


RIVAL  ATTRACTIONS  329 

No  answer  was  sent ;  it  was  thought  to  be  a  hoax,  and 
the  incident  slipped  from  the  child's  memory.  By  mere 
chance  I  heard  of  it.  I  was  charmed  at  the  letter  and  un- 
affected frankness  of  the  child,  and  answered  at  length, 
begging  that  I  might  be  accepted  as  a  correspondent  in 
default  of  a  better.  In  a  fortnight's  time  I  had  a  long 
and  delightful  reply.  I  will  only  quote  the  last  few 
lines  : — 

"  Last  year  Anne  and  I  published  a  little  magazine ;  I 
will  send  you  some  copies  of  it.  We  published  it  for  a  year 
and  then  gave  it  up,  as  it  was  hard  work  and  did  not  pay 

very  well.     I  hope  I  shall  hear  from  before  long.     I 

must  end  my  letter  now.    Please  write  again  soon. 

"  Yours  truly,  . 

"  P.S. — I  haven't  a  shorter  name  than  Irene ;  if  I  had, 
you  might  call  me  by  it." 

Naturally,  I  fancied  the  magazine  was  a  few  pages  of  MS. 
got  together  for  her  family  and  friends.  Great  was  my 
surprise  when,  a  few  days  later,  I  received  twelve  numbers 
of  "  Our  Magazine,"  neatly  printed  on  good  paper  and  well 
brought  out,  with  the  name  of  the  editress,  my  little  friend, 
then  thirteen  years  of  age,  on  the  cover.  It  was  a  charming 
child's  magazine,  with  stories  long  and  short,  and  sketches 
and  scraps,  comic  and  sentimental.  But  the  crowning  sur- 
prise were  the  poems  of  my  thirteen-year-old  friend.  Let 
me  give  a  single  example  from  a  score.  I  much  doubt  if 
it  is  the  best : — 

The  tall  trees  said  to  the  murmuring  wind, 

"  Shake  down  our  leaves  of  gold, 

Down  on  the  grass  and  the  flowers  below, 

They  shiver  in  the  cold. 

We  trees  are  covered  with  thick  rough  bark, 

We  are  tall  and  strong  and  old. 

"  The  poor  little  flowers  are  tender  and  young, 

Last  year  they  came  from  seed. 

When  cold  Winter  comes  with  its  ice  and  snow 

Warm  blankets  they  will  need. 

Oh,  dear  wind,  shake  down  our  yellow  leaves, 

Cover  the  poorest  weed." 


330     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

So  gentle  the  wind  on  the  branches  brown 
Did  softly,  softly  blow,  ;< 

And  the  little  leaves  all  yellow  and  red 
Did  rustling  downwards  go, 
To  cover  warm  from  the  frost  and  cold 
The  flowers  that  slept  below. 

The  correspondence  thus  begun  continued,  while  my  child 
friend,  whom  I  had  never  seen,  grew  to  a  woman.  A  score, 
at  least,  of  long  and  confidential  letters  passed  between 
us  every  year,  till  we  grew  to  be  familiar  friends. 

We  called  each  other  by  our  Christian  names,  we  chatted 
of  our  families  and  friends,  our  pursuits  and  amusements. 
We  knew  each  other  more  intimately  than  neighbours  that 
meet  every  other  day. 

So  it  happened,  as  I  more  than  once  told  her  in  my  letters, 
my  two  chief  objects  in  visiting  America  were  to  meet  Irene 
and  to  see  Niagara.  When  I  wrote  to  her  of  my  arrival,  the 
three  sisters  came  up  specially  to  meet  me  in  New  York, 
and  we  dined  together  at  one  of  the  chief  hotels. 

At  our  first  meeting  Irene  gave  me  her  hand.  "  That's 
too  cold,"  I  said,  "  for  such  old  friends  as  you  and  I,"  and 
I  kissed  her.  She  was  all,  and  even  more  than  all,  her 
letters  had  promised,  and  our  correspondence  is  more 
cordial  than  ever  since  we  met. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A  DELIGHTFUL  VISIT 

Burke-Cockran  at  home — A  "  frame  house  "  on  Long  Island — Sherman's 
grandchildren — "The  sea  was  boiling  hot" — American  women — Their 
special  charm — Why  works  of  art  are  taxed — Mrs.  Jack  Gardiner  of 
Boston — Evasion  of  tariff — Statues  of  lead. 

ON  my  return  from  the  Exposition  to  the  Manhattan 
Hotel,  in  New  York,  I  found  a  letter  awaiting  me 
from  Mr.  Burke-Cockran,  with  an  invitation  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  him  at  his  residence  in  Long  Island. 

During  my  entire  trip,  in  every  town  I  visited  I  had 
heard  the  praises  of  Mr.  Burke-Cockran  sung,  especially  by 
enthusiastic  Democrats,  as  the  most  eloquent  man  in 
America.  There  was  no  man  in  the  States,  not  excepting 
the  President  himself,  whom  I  was  more  anxious  to  meet, 
and  it  may  be  imagined  with  what  pleasure  I  accepted  the 
kindly  invitation,  for  which  I  was  indebted  to  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Mr.  John  Dillon,  whom  Mr.  Burke- 
Cockran  counts,  as  he  subsequently  told  me,  as  one  of  his 
closest  and  most  valued  friends. 

Next  morning  the  telephone  bell  in  my  bedroom  in 
Manhattan  rang  me  out  of  bed,  and  in  a  moment  I  was 
conversing  with  Mr.  Burke-Cockran  in  his  home  in  Long 
Island,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  away.  From  him  I  had 
minute  instructions  when  to  start  and  where  to  go  and  what 
train  to  catch.  I  am  a  child  in  those  matters,  always  missing 
my  way,  but  the  instructions  were  so  clear  and  specific  that 
I  found  myself  without  trouble  at  the  railway  station,  where 
my  host  was  himself  waiting  with  a  high  dogcart  to  drive 
me  to  his  home  by  the  sea. 

Mr.  Burke-Cockran  is  a  remarkable  man,  even  to  the 
uninformed  eyes  of  a  stranger.  His  appearance  carries  dis- 
tinction apart  from  his  reputation.  In  that  massive  head 

331 


332     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

and  face  there  is  vast  intelligence  and  power,  and  in  his 
manner  there  is  a  geniality  that  tells  of  the  Irish  descent 
of  which  he  is  so  proud. 

He  was  in  especially  good  humour  that  day  he  met  me 
at  the  train,  and  told  me  the  cause  with  almost  boyish 
eagerness.  It  seems  that  he  had  just  won  first  prize  for 
his  favourite  horse  at  the  local  show  and  had  the  silver  cup 
with  him  in  the  trap.  When  we  got  to  the  house,  his  first 
care  was  to  arrange  to  have  a  glass  case  constructed  for  the 
silver  cup  over  the  stall  of  the  horse  that  won  it.  It  was  a 
curious  idea  and  very  typical  of  the  man. 

Mr.  Burke-Cockran's  mansion  stands  in  a  wide  and  well- 
wooded  demesne,  with  its  back  to  the  sea.  It  is  what  is  known 
in  America  as  a  "  frame  house,"  with  wooden  walls  on  a  stone 
foundation.  An  excellent  whip  and  rider,  he  keeps,  or  used  to 
keep,  a  score  or  so  of  horses  in  the  extensive  stables  situated 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house.  On  the  verge  of  his 
grounds  there  is  a  Catholic  church,  at  which  he  is  a  constant 
and  devout  attendant.  At  the  time  I  paid  my  visit  to  Mr. 
Burke-Cockran  his  other  guests  were  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Jack 
Gardiner,  of  Boston,  and  a  daughter  of  the  famous  General 
Sherman,  with  her  three  children — a  boy  and  two  girls. 

A  very  delightful  house-party  it  was,  full  of  consideration 
and  information  for  the  stranger.  Somehow  it  seemed  to 
bring  me  in  touch  with  the  stirring  history  of  America  to 
hear  that  the  little  boy  with  whom  I  played  on  the  grounds 
(a  bright  and  sturdy  little  fellow)  had  only  a  short  while 
ago  unveiled  at  Washington  a  colossal  statue  of  his  grand- 
father, who  played  so  brilliant  a  part  in  the  Civil  War. 
I  had  an  opportunity,  too,  while  staying  with  Mr.  Burke- 
Cockran  of  verifying  my  views  about  the  women  of  America. 
Long  Island  is,  as  everyone  knows,  a  very  fashionable 
suburb  of  New  York  and  dotted  all  over  with  mansions  of 
millionaires.  Each  evening  he  drove  me  out  to  a  big  dinner- 
party, and  everywhere  a  hospitable  welcome  awaited 
himself  and  his  guest.  It  was  regarded  to  be  something  of 
a  distinction  to  be  a  guest  of  Mr.  Burke-Cockran,  and  on 
that  account  I  was  received  with  special  cordiality. 

As  I  have  said,  from  the  beginning  of  my  trip  I  was  im- 


A    DELIGHTFUL  VISIT  333 

pressed  by  the  ease  and  grace  and  thorough  naturalness  that 
distinguishes  the  American  women.  I  never  felt  this  more 
strongly  than  at  those  stately  dinner-tables  to  which  I  was 
welcomed  as  the  guest  of  the  great  Irish- American.  Each 
evening  I  went  down  to  dinner  with  some  charming  American 
lady  to  whom  I  had  been  introduced  only  a  moment  before, 
and  a  moment  later  we  were  talking  like  old  friends,  with  a 
freedom  and  absence  of  constraint  that  could  not  be  achieved 
by  less  than  a  month's  acquaintance  in  any  other  country 
in  the  world. 

I  never  saw  those  ladies  before  and,  I  fear,  am  not  likely 
to  ever  see  them  again — even  their  names  have  passed  from 
my  memory — but  I  have  to  thank  them  for  an  experience 
which  will  be  a  pleasant  memory  while  I  live.  It  has  been 
well  said  that  America  is  the  heaven  of  women  :  nowhere 
else  in  the  world  have  they  so  good  a  time,  nowhere  are 
they  so  cherished,  cared  for,  petted  and  not  spoiled.  But 
they,  in  their  turn,  help  to  make  it  a  heaven  for  the  men. 
The  American  girls  are,  for  the  most  part,  beautiful,  but 
their  beauty  only  serves  to  heighten  the  ease  of  manner 
and  quick  intelligence  which  makes  them  among  the  most 
charming  women  in  the  world. 

I  look  back  with  undiminished  delight  to  my  experience 
of  an  American  home.  During  my  stay  with  Mr.  Burke- 
Cockran,  the  youngsters,  with  whom  their  host  was  always 
ready  for  a  romp,  eased  my  loneliness  for  my  own  youngsters, 
abandoned  at  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  They  were 
fair  specimens  of  the  American  child,  and  the  American 
child  is  peculiarly  charming. 

I  remember  well  one  very  pleasant  day  spent  in  their 
company  when  the  thermometer  was  over  a  hundred  degrees 
in  the  shade  and  the  sun's  rays  burned  where  they  touched. 
We  four  made  our  way  together  down  through  the  woods 
at  the  back  of  the  house  to  the  sea.  I  wonder  is  it  right  to 
mention  here  that  the  woods  and  shrubberies  of  Long  Island 
are  infested  by  a  kind  of  vegetable  reptile  whose  bite  is 
poisonous  ?  It  is  known  as  poison  ivy  ;  it  does  not  sting 
like  the  nettle  when  touched,  but  it  subsequently  raises 
blisters  which  are  very  hard  to  heal. 


334     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

The  boy  had  been  bitten  on  the  bare  legs  by  the  poison 
ivy,  and  though  the  bite  was  more  than  a  fortnight  old  the 
blisters  were  still  there.  I  was  about  to  catch  the  vegetable 
serpent  in  my  hand  when  he  warned  me.  He  broke  into 
the  shrubbery  right  and  left,  beating  down  the  enemy 
mercilessly  with  a  stick  ;  but  the  girls  and  myself  kept 
cautiously  along  the  path  in  Indian  file,  turning  neither  to 
the  right  nor  to  the  left  until  we  reached  the  sea. 

Mr.  Burke-Cockran  keeps  a  handsome  boathouse  on  the 
shore  provided  with  all  bathing  appliances.  In  a  few 
minutes  we  were  ready  for  the  water.  But  as  I  was  going 
to  step  down  the  spring-board  from  the  shelter  of  the  cabin 
the  skipper  warned  me  back.  He  took  up  a  full  bucket  of 
water  from  the  sea  and  splashed  it  upon  the  spring-board, 
which  steamed  like  hot  iron  at  the  contact. 

"  If  you  had  walked  there,  sir,  before  I  cooled  it,"  he 
said,  "  you  would  not  have  had  a  half-inch  of  whole  skin 
on  the  soles  of  your  feet." 

The  recollection  of  that  swim  makes  me  understand  what 
sea  bathing  is  to  the  people  of  America  when  the  sun  is  doing 
its  best.  The  water  was  almost  as  warm  as  the  air — not 
quite,  just  a  pleasant  coolness.  The  youngsters  swam  like 
ducks,  just  as  they  walked  or  ran,  with  no  thought  of 
fatigue.  It  was  a  good  hour  or  more  before  we  coaxed  our- 
selves from  the  cool  element  back  to  the  almost  unendurable 
heat  on  land. 

Protection  sometimes  operates  curiously  in  America. 
Mrs.  Jack  Gardiner  is  an  old  lady  who  preserves  all  the 
brilliancy  and  vivacity  of  youth — a  friend  of  Browning 
during  his  life  ;  a  friend  of  the  great  painter  Sargent.  A 
discriminating  and  munificent  lover  and  patron  of  Literature 
and  Art,  she  has  built  a  palace  at  Boston  and  filled  it  with 
art  treasures  that  almost  rival,  so  I  am  told,  the  great 
Wallace  Collection  in  London.  Rumour  has  it  that  she 
purposes  leaving  this  priceless  palace  to  her  native  town. 
But  meanwhile  the  indiscriminating  laws  of  her  native  land 
have  mulcted  her  of  something  like  a  quarter  of  a  million 
dollars  duty  on  the  importation  of  those  art  treasures.  It 
certainly  seems  a  strange  anomaly.  Other  countries  regard 


A  DELIGHTFUL   VISIT  335 

great  works  of  art,  even  in  private  ownership,  as  a  national 
possession,  and  sometimes,  as  in  Italy,  absolutely  forbid 
their  exportation.  America,  that  should  be  so  keen  to 
acquire  through  its  citizens  possession  of  Old  World  art 
treasures,  has  the  folly  to  put  a  penalty  rather  than  a  bonus 
on  their  importation. 

Mr.  Bryce,  who  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  North 
American  when  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous  reviews  in 
the  world,  contributed  to  by  Mr.  Elaine  and  Mr.  Gladstone, 
gave  me  at  his  own  dinner-table  what  may  be  taken  as  an 
explanation,  at  least,  if  not  a  justification,  of  this  strange 
anomaly. 

It  seems  that  at  first  works  of  art  were  duty  free.  But 
it  chanced  that  at  one  period  that  there  was  a  great  and 
sudden  demand  in  the  United  States  for  lead,  which  was  the 
subject  of  a  particularly  heavy  tariff.  A  Yankee  genius 
conceived  the  happy  thought  of  running  foreign  lead  into 
moulds  of  "  Venus,"  "  Juno  "  and  "  Jupiter,"  and  ship- 
ping it  wholesale  to  the  United  States  as  "  works  of  art." 
It  was  after  that  the  tariff  'on  works  of  art  was  established, 
of  which  Mrs.  Gardiner  has  been  the  chief  victim. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 
ROOSEVELT  AT  HOME 

Washington — A  pleasant  city— No  slums — No  factories — The  Capitol — 
Legislature  buildings — The  White  House — An  accessible  sovereign — 
Roosevelt's  views  on  Ireland — Irish  blood  in  his  veins — His  qualifica- 
tion for  the  position — "  Lecky  first  made  me  a  Home  Ruler." 

I  ENDED  my  visit  to  America  in  Washington,  keeping  the 
best  for  the  last.  It  is  emphatically  the  most  beautiful 
city  I  saw  in  the  States.  There  are  many  who  pronounce  it 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world.  It  is  a  city  of  stately 
public  buildings,  of  innumerable  monuments  and  statues, 
of  broad,  smooth  ways,  of  verdure  and  of  sunshine.  I 
never  saw  a  city  so  full  of  trees.  They  are  everywhere, 
lining  every  road  or  scattered  in  clusters  through  the 
innumerable  parks  and  pleasure-grounds.  Washington  is 
a  capital  without  being  a  chief  town.  There  are  scores  of 
cities  in  the  States  that  exceed  its  modest  population  of 
three  hundred  thousand.  New  York  has  at  least  twelve 
times  its  population.  There  are  no  factories  in  Washington, 
and  consequently  there  is  pure  air.  There  are  no  slums. 
It  is  a  political  and  social  centre  merely,  and  admirably 
fulfils  its  functions.  I  am  not  going  to  attempt  a  guide- 
book description  of  the  American  capital,  but  I  may  briefly 
note  a  few  of  its  wonders.  The  Marble  Library  is  one  of  the 
most  spacious  and  richly  decorated  buildings  in  the  world. 
There  are  very  nearly  a  hundred  miles  of  bookshelves  in 
the  library,  with  full  space  for  four  million  five  hundred 
thousand  books.  At  present  there  are  something  over  one 
million  volumes  catalogued  and  arranged.  Yet  so  perfect 
are  the  arrangements  of  endless  cables  and  book  carriers 
that  any  book  can  be  whisked  in  a  few  seconds  from  the 
remotest  shelf  in  the  vast  building  into  the  hands  of  the 
expectant  reader.  Amongst  the  boasts  of  the  library  is  a 

•    336 


ROOSEVELT  AT  HOME  337 

spacious  reading-room  for  the  blind,  with  a  huge  collection 
of  books  printed  with  raised  type. 

The  Capitol  calls  for  praise  that  I  have  no  space  to 
bestow.  It  is  the  greatest  building  in  the  New  World.  It 
represents  the  most  successful  effort  of  the  men  of  modern 
times  to  match  the  spacious  days  of  the  Old  World.  The 
painting  and  sculpture  with  which  its  great  halls  and  vast 
domes  are  decorated  are  the  finest  and  the  best  of  which 
America  can  boast.  Within  its  ample  confines  there  is 
abundant  space  for  the  Supreme  Court,  the  Senate  Hall 
and  the  Hall  of  Representatives.  This  latter  building 
excited  my  special  interest.  It  is,  so  far  as  I  could  judge, 
considerably  larger  than  the  House  of  Commons,  though 
the  number  to  be  accommodated  is  less  than  half.  But 
then  the  Hall  of  Representatives  affords  a  comfortable  seat 
and  desk  for  each  Member.  The  seat  is  selected  by  lot  at 
the  opening  of  the  session  and  is  retained  till  the  close  of 
two  years'  term.  The  galleries  for  visitors  run  right  round 
the  Chamber,  which  is  circular  in  form.  The  reporters  are, 
as  in  the  House  of  Commons,  at  the  back  of  the  Speaker's 
chair.  There  is  no  gallery  specially  reserved  for  ladies,  but 
to  the  public  gallery,  to  which  they  are  admitted,  there  is 
no  grating. 

The  size  of  the  American  Chamber  of  Representatives  is 
not,  however,  an  unmitigated  advantage.  Mr.  Burke- 
Cockran  assures  me  it  is  about  the  worst  hall  in  America 
for  speaking  and  hearing.  The  strongest  and  clearest  voice 
is  there  dissipated  in  echoes.  If  the  hall  is  hard  to  fill,  he 
adds,  the  audience  is  hard  to  hold.  No  position,  no  reputa- 
tion, suffices.  Unless  the  orator  has  something  to  say  and 
knows  how  to  say  it,  in  five  minutes  the  buzz  of  conversation 
breaks  in  upon  his  speech.  The  Congressmen  have  not  yet 
acquired  the  House  of  Commons'  trick  of  deserting  the 
House  in  a  body  when  a  bore  gets  on  his  legs. 

From  other  sources  I  learn  that  none  of  the  difficulties  he 
describes  are  ever  personally  experienced  by  Mr.  Burke- 
Cockran.  There  is  no  Member  of  the  Congress  who  can  hold 
the  House  better.  Prominent  men  of  both  parties  assured 
me  at  St.  Louis,  Chicago,  Boston  and  New  York  that  he 
z 


338     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

is,  beyond  all  doubt  or  question,  the  greatest  orator  in 
America,  and  many  added  that  if  he  were  a  native-born 
American  he  would  probably  be  the  Democrat  nomination 
for  the  Presidency. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  wandered  from  Washington.  Let  me 
come  back  to  the  White  House  and  the  President.  I  was, 
at  first  sight,  not  a  little  amazed  at  the  simplicity  of  the 
residence  of  the  President.  A  plain  white  building  two 
stories  high,  exclusive  of  attic  and  basement,  it  is  no  bigger 
than  an  ordinary  country  seat  of  an  Irish  landlord.  Its 
severe  simplicity  is  relieved  only  by  a  portico  with  tall  Ionic 
pillars.  Yet  this  modest  residence  is  the  sole  palace  of  the 
most  powerful  ruler  in  the  world.  The  building  greeted  me 
from  the  first  with  a  vague  suggestion  of  familiarity.  After- 
wards I  learned  from  the  guide-book  that  the  architect, 
"  John  Hoban,  drew  his  plans  closely  from  those  of  the  seat 
of  the  Dukes  of  Leinster,  near  Dublin."  The  whole  building 
is  pure  white,  but  it  is  the  white  of  paint,  not  of  marble. 
The  house  is  built  of  Virginian  freestone.  "  In  1814,"  we 
read,  "  in  John  Quincy  Adams'  term  of  office,  the  house 
was  fired  by  the  marauding  British  troops,  and  only  the 
walls  left  standing.  At  the  restoration  the  stone  was 
painted  white  to  obliterate  the  traces  of  fire."  It  is  as  the 
"  White  House  "  that  the  home  of  one  of  the  world's 
greatest  sovereigns,  and  the  seat  of  his  government,  is 
known  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  globe. 

At  one  end  of  the  White  House  is  a  small  one-storey 
building  to  which  I  was  directed  as  "  the  President's 
office."  A  plump,  bald-headed  negro  took  my  card  to  the 
President's  secretary,  Mr.  Barnes,  to  whom  I  presented 
my  letter  of  introduction  from  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy  to  the 
President.  Then,  in  five  minutes,  it  was  arranged  that  I 
should  have  an  interview  with  the  President  at  half-past 
eleven  next  morning.  I  walked  out  into  the  green  and 
sunshiny  park,  bewildered  with  the  simplicity  and  prompti- 
tude of  the  performance.  No  fuss,  no  ceremony,  no  barriers, 
no  lords-in-waiting ;  just  send  in  a  card  and  arrange  an 
interview,  as  a  matter  of  course,  with  the  ruler  of  one  of 
the  greatest  empires  in  the  world. 


ROOSEVELT  AT  HOME  339 

Needless  to  say,  I  was  punctual  next  morning  ;  but  I  was 
not  three  minutes  waiting  when  the  President,  plainly 
dressed  in  light  grey  tweed,  stepped  briskly  into  the 
plainly  furnished  room  and  accorded  me  a  most  cordial 
greeting. 

President  Roosevelt  looked  very  young  for  his  age  ;  face 
and  figure  were  wonderfully  alive  and  alert ;  there  was  not 
a  touch  of  grey  in  his  thick  brown  hair  ;  his  eyes  and  smile 
had  the  vivacity  of  youth  ;  one  would  have  guessed  his  age 
at  thirty-five — forty  at  the  outside. 

After  a  hearty  greeting  he  plunged  at  once  into  familiar 
talk  about  Ireland  and  her  prospects.  How  was  the  new 
Land  Act  working  ?  What  would  be  the  position  of  parties 
and  what  the  position  of  Ireland  after  the  next  election  ? 
I  told  him  that  we  believed  in  Ireland  that  the  Coercion 
policy  was  completely  exploded  and  that  the  Unionists  were 
hopelessly  divided,  and  that  it  was  probable  that  the  Irish 
party  would  hold  the  balance  of  power  at  the  next  election 
and  could  again  press  Home  Rule  to  the  front. 

"  I  do  not  understand  why  pressure  is  needed,"  said  the 
President.  "  The  English  should  grant  it  for  their  own 
sake  if  not  for  yours.  It  is  for  her  sake  as  well  as  yours  that 
we  in  America  desire  it.  We  have  many  happy  examples 
before  our  eyes  in  our  own  federal  government.  I  have  been 
reading  lately,"  he  added,  "  Morley's  '  Life  of  Gladstone,'  a 
wonderful  and  fascinating  book.  Gladstone's  arguments 
in  favour  of  Home  Rule  are,  to  my  mind,  convincing,  but, 
apart  from  argument,  his  personal  authority  should  count 
for  much  with  the  English  people." 

I  mentioned  that  Dr.  Emmet,  with  whom  I  had  dined  in 
New  York,  had  allowed  me  to  use  his  name  as  an  intro- 
duction. 

"  You  could  use  none  of  more  influence  with  me,"  said 
the  President.  "  Why,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  it  was 
Dr.  Emmet  who,  as  our  family  physician,  brought  me  into 
the  world.  I  have  a  sincere  regard  for  Dr.  Emmet  and  his 
family.  The  Emmets  have  grown  to  be  a  great  New  York 
family.  The  name  is  as  highly  respected  in  New  York  as 
in  Ireland.  At  the  same  time,  let  me  say  you  needed  no 


340     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

other  introduction  to  me  than  Justin  McCarthy.  There  is 
no  Irishman  better  known  or  better  liked  as  a  man  and  a 
writer  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic." 

I  rose  to  take  my  leave,  but  the  President  told  me  to  be 
seated. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  I  said,  "  to  trespass  on  such  valuable 
time.  I  have  always  thought  you  must  be  the  busiest  man 
in  the  world,  except  the  Pope." 

"  I  rather  think  I  am,"  he  said  laughingly,  "  except  the 
Pope.  I  think  you  were  right  in  excepting  the  Pope  ;  but 
I  would  not  except  any  other  man  on  earth,  not  even  the 
Kaiser.  All  the  same,"  he  added  kindly,  "  I  can  spare  a 
few  minutes  for  a  visitor  from  Ireland.  I  am  deeply  inter- 
ested," he  went  on,  "  in  the  Gaelic  revival.  Lady  Gregory's 
translations  of  the  old  Irish  legends  have  afforded  me 
extreme  pleasure.  I  have  also  read  with  the  greatest 
interest  the  works  of  Emily  Lawless.  There  is  one  of  her 
poems — I  forget  the  name,  but  you  will  find  it  near  the  end 
of  the  volume — which  might  have  been  written  by  Parnell 
or  Davitt,  if  to  their  other  great  gifts  the  poetical  faculty 
had  been  added.  By  the  way,  I  trust  Mr.  Davitt  is  well. 
I  have  a  warm  personal  regard  for  Mr.  Davitt,  and  indeed 
for  all  the  Irish  leaders.  You  must  know  I  have  Irish  blood 
in  my  veins." 

"  We  are  very  proud,"  I  said,  "  of  that  fact  in  Ireland." 

"  Oh,  I  belong  to  many  nationalities,"  said  the  President. 
"  I  have  that  one  qualification  to  be  President  of  the  United 
States,  which  is  a  country  of  many  nationalities.  I  am 
partly  Irish,  partly  Dutch,  partly  English." 

"  Less  English  than  Irish,  I  trust,  Mr.  President,"  I 
ventured  to  interpolate. 

The  President  grew  suddenly  grave.  "  Every  nation  on 
earth,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  shall  have  fair  play  from  the 
Government  of  the  United  States  and  its  President.  At  the 
same  time,  I  can  thoroughly  understand  the  feeling  of  Irish- 
men. No  one  can  read  history  and  fail  to  appreciate  it. 
It  was  the  history  of  Mr.  Lecky  that  first  made  me  a  Home 
Ruler.  I  cannot  understand  how  the  author  of  that  descrip- 
tion of  the  Union  could  be  himself  a  Unionist.  I  cannot 


ROOSEVELT  AT  HOME  341 

understand  how  any  man  could  read  that  history,  far  less 
write  it,  without  becoming  a  Home  Ruler.  It  seems  to  me 
that  expediency,  as  well  as  justice,  are  so  strongly  in  favour 
of  the  reform  that  Home  Rule  cannot  be  long  denied  to 
Ireland." 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 
APPOINTED  A  JUDGE 

Lord  O'Brien  of  Kilfenora,  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland — "  Mrs.  Maloney  to 
you,  Pether  " — Jury  packing,  challenging  the  array — The  MacDermot's 
white  waistcoat — The  situation  saved  by  a  pin — Contempt  of  court — 
A  threat  and  a  retort — Appointed  as  County  Court  Judge — Appoint- 
ment challenged — An  absurd  affidavit — A  fiasco. 

A  VERY  interesting  personage  at  the  Bar  and  on  the 
Bench  was  the  ex-Chief  Justice  of  Ireland,  Lord  O'Brien 
of  Kilfenora.  Like  Sir  Edward  Carson,  he  took  an  active 
part  in  prosecutions  under  the  coercion  regime  of  Mr. 
Balfour,  and  thereby  earned  a  temporary  unpopularity  in 
Ireland.  But  that  unpopularity  had  completely  evaporated 
long  before  the  retirement  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice.  It 
was  impossible  to  maintain  a  permanent  quarrel  with  a  man 
of  such  genial  good-humour.  It  was  eminently  characteristic 
of  the  man  that  he  loved  to  tell  the  following  story  of  his 
own  brief  unpopularity. 

He  was  engaged  for  the  defence  in  an  action  brought  by 
a  Mrs.  Bridget  Maloney,  and  it  became  his  duty  to  cross- 
examine  the  plaintiff. 

"  Come  now,  Bridget,"  he  began,  "  kindly  answer  me  a 
few  questions." 

The  plaintiff  stiffened  in  the  box  and  turned  on  him  a 
look  of  withering  scorn.  "  Bridget,  indade !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Mrs.  Maloney,  if  you  plase,  to  you,  Pether." 

While  writing  for  the  Freeman  I  continued  to  practise 
at  the  Bar,  and  was  engaged  in  quite  a  number  of  important 
cases.  It  so  chanced  that  during  my  practice  from  first  to 
last  I  was  brought  into  frequent  collision  with  Lord  Chief 
Justice  O'Brien,  both  as  counsel  and  judge. 

The  first  time  we  met  in  court,  many  years  ago,  was  when 
I  defended  a  number  of  tenants  of  the  Marquis  of  Clan- 

342 


Photo  by  Chancellor  and  Son,  Dublin. 


LORD  O'BRIEN  OF  KILFENORA 

Lately  retired  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland 


P-  342 


APPOINTED  A  JUDGE  343 

ricarde,  whom  the  Chief  Justice  (then  Serjeant  O'Brien) 
prosecuted  before  Chief  Baron  Pallas  and  a  special  jury  at 
the  Winter  Assizes  in  Sligo.  On  behalf  of  the  prisoners  I 
"  challenged  the  array,"  and  the  jury  panel  was  quashed 
by  the  Chief  Baron  on  the  ground  of  gross  irregularities.  It 
was  on  that  occasion  Lord  O'Brien  obtained  the  soubriquet 
by  which  he  is  more  generally  known  in  Ireland  than  by  his 
title  of  nobility. 

We  had  a  second  encounter  at  the  same  assizes,  at  the 
close  of  the  case  for  the  prosecution  of  Mr.  Jasper  Tully 
under  the  Whiteboys  Act  for  publishing  in  his  newspaper 
reports  of  the  meetings  of  the  United  Irish  League.  At  the 
close  of  the  prosecution,  having  asked  Serjeant  O'Brien  if 
he  had  anything  more  to  add,  and  receiving  a  curt  negative 
in  reply,  I  demanded  a  direction  of  acquittal  on  the  ground 
that  no  case  had  been  made  against  my  client. 

Serjeant  O'Brien  was  at  first  indignant  and  contemptuous, 
but  when  the  Chief  Baron  intimated  that  as  the  case  stood 
I  was  entitled  to  a  direction,  he  applied  for  an  adjournment 
to  mend  his  hand. 

Against  this  I  strongly  protested,  and  declared  somewhat 
flippantly,  as  I  now  consider,  that  it  was  no  part  of  my 
duty  to  direct  proofs  for  the  prosecution.  The  adjourn- 
ment was,  however,  granted,  but  the  jury  disagreed  and 
the  prisoner  was  discharged. 

But  it  was  not  in  the  courts  alone  that  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  and  myself  came  in  conflict.  For  one  reason  or 
another  he  was  the  subject  of  an  occasional  comment  in 
the  Freeman's  Journal.  Perhaps  the  most  amusing  in- 
cident in  his  career  was  his  judicial  objection  to  the 
white  waistcoat  of  that  eminent  Queen's  Counsel,  The 
MacDermot. 

By  common  repute  The  MacDermot,  "  Prince  of  Coo- 
lavin,"  by  letters  patent,  "  The  wily  Mac "  in  the 
affectionate  familiarity  of  his  colleagues  on  circuit,  was  the 
ablest  and  most  astute  lawyer  at  the  Irish  Bar.  I  have 
introduced  him  as  Mr.  Yorke  into  a  novel  of  mine,  "  A 
Modern  Miracle,"  as  a  counsel  who  contrived  to  convey  to 
a  jury  that  the  worst  case  in  which  he  appeared  was  a  good 


344 

one  spoiled  by  the  advocate,  and  so  secured  their  sympathy 
and  verdict  for  his  client.  He  was  Solicitor-General  and 
Attorney-General  in  Gladstone's  last  government,  and  it 
was  by  mere  bad  luck  that  he  never  reached  the  Bench,  for 
which  he  was  eminently  qualified. 

The  MacDermot  was  many  years  senior  at  the  Bar  to 
the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  before  his  promotion  had  con- 
stantly led  him  in  court.  But  in  a  little  incident  that 
occurred  in  the  Court  of  King's  Bench,  Lord  O'Brien's  fine 
sense  of  decorum  overruled  those  considerations.  Next 
day  in  the  Freeman's  Journal  appeared  a  leading  article  on 
"  MacDermot's  White  Waistcoat." 

"  There  are  many  things  eminent  counsel  may  do  on  his 
way  from  the  Bar  to  the  Bench  that  to  the  ordinary  lay 
mind  seem  somewhat  questionable.  He  may  turn  his  coat 
with  impunity  and  even  with  advantage.  But  he  must 
never  wear  a  white  waistcoat  when  appearing  before  a  Lord 
Chief  Justice.  This  vital  point  of  legal  practice  was  yester- 
day decided  by  Lord  Chief  Justice  O'Brien,  ex  parte  The 
MacDermot,  Q.C.  We  give  the  details  of  the  important 
case  for  the  benefit  of  the  public  and  the  profession.  The 
MacDermot  appeared  in  court  as  the  leading  counsel  for 
the  defendant  in  the  case  of  Menton  v.  Corporation  of 
Dublin,  apparelled  in  the  silk  gown  and  starched  band  and 
the  funny  curly-pated  horsehair  wig  that  custom  ordains 
for  such  occasions.  So  much  is  to  be  conceded  in  the 
extenuation  of  his  grave  offence.  For  on  his  manly  bosom 
he  wore  '  the  white  waistcoat  of  a  blameless  life.'  The 
obnoxious  garment  caught  the  keen  eye  of  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice,  whose  sense  of  professional  decorum  is  painfully 
acute. 

'  I  observe,'  he  said,  '  that  one  of  the  Queen's  Counsel 
appears  in  a  white  waistcoat  which  is  not  a  professional 
costume.'  Mark  and  admire  the  dignity  of  this,  '  one  of 
the  Queen's  Counsel.'  The  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland 
cannot  condescend  to  discriminate  between  the  Queen's 
Counsel  who  have  the  honour  to  appear  before  him.  Or 
was  it  that  his  eye  was  so  offended  by  the  first  glance  at 
the  obnoxious  garment  that  he  could  not  look  again  in  the 


APPOINTED  A  JUDGE  345 

same  direction  ?  He  identified  the  waistcoat,  but  not  the 
wearer.  There  is  a  member  of  the  Bar  in  whose  keeping 
the  honour  of  the  Bar  is  safe,  who  is  recognized  among  his 
brethren  as  the  highest  type  of  manly  independence.  He 
splendidly  vindicated  his  reputation.  '  My  lord,'  he  said, 
'  a  judge  in  England  stated  last  week  that  he  would  not 
hear  any  counsel  that  did  not  appear  in  Bar  costume.'  He 
did  not  state  the  name  of  the  case  nor  of  the  judge.  He 
felt  he  had  done  enough  for  honour  by  this  public  repudia- 
tion of  an  offending  brother  and  this  public  exhibition  of 
profound  deference  to  the  court. 

"  The  Chief  Justice  of  Ireland  was  not  to  be  outdone  by 
any  anonymous  English  judge. 

'  And  I/  he  said,  '  won't  hear  any  barrister  who  comes 
into  court  wearing  anything  unprofessional.'  Here  was  a 
terrible  situation.  For  a  moment  there  was  awestruck 
silence  in  the  court.  Would  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  order 
The  MacDermot's  white  waistcoat  to  be  removed  by  the 
usher  of  the  court  and  burned  by  the  common  hangman  ? 
Those  that  knew  the  man,  who  knew  the  high  ideals  that 
governed  his  professional  career,  felt  him  capable  of  that 
splendid  exercise  of  his  authority.  But  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy 
saved  the  situation  with  a  pin.  The  MacDermot  pinned 
his  silk  gown  over  the  offending  garment  and  the  case 
proceeded. 

"  There  are  many  who  will  gravely  doubt  whether  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  was  justified  in  this  toleration.  It  was 
paltering  with  the  evil  thing.  He  had,  so  to  speak,  judicial 
knowledge  that  the  white  waistcoat  was  there.  It  is  a  nice 
question  if  the  dignity  of  the  court  was  sufficiently  main- 
tained by  a  pin.  The  case  suggests  appalling  possibilities. 
The  Lord  Chief  Justice  did  not  restrict  his  veto  to  white 
waistcoats.  He  would  refuse,  he  said,  to  hear  any  counsel 
who  came  into  court  wearing  anything  unprofessional.  He 
was  plainly  alluding  to  some  other  garment.  Suppose  an 
eminent  Queen's  Counsel  came  into  court  wearing  an  un- 
professional pair  of  trousers  ?  In  this  case  decorum  could 
not  be  adequately  secured  by  a  pin.  Would  the  eminent 
Queen's  Counsel  have  to  be  wholly  removed,  or  would  it 


346     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 

suffice  to  remove — but  the  subject  is  too  painful  to  pursue 
further." 

Rightly  or  wrongly,  I  got  the  credit  of  writing  the  article, 
which  I  cannot  flatter  myself  was  calculated  to  improve  my 
relations  with  the  Lord  Chief  Justice. 

Our  second  last  encounter  was  more  dramatic.  An 
application  was  made  against  the  editor  of  the  Freeman's 
Journal  in  a  motion  to  attach  and  imprison  him  for  con- 
tempt of  court  by  reason  of  a  comment  which  had  appeared 
in  his  paper  on  the  conduct  of  a  trial  at  which  Lord  Chief 
Justice  O'Brien  presided. 

The  Lord  Chief  Justice  also  presided  at  the  hearing  of  the 
contempt  of  court  application,  and  as  leading  counsel  for 
the  Freeman's  Journal  editor  I  respectfully  suggested  that 
his  lordship  should  not  hear  the  case  in  which  his  own 
conduct  was  impugned.  By  way  of  reply  he  threatened  to 
have  me  removed  from  the  court  by  the  police.  I  challenged 
his  authority,  and  he  thought  better  of  the  threat,  and 
thenceforward,  though  he  persisted  in  presiding  at  the 
trial,  his  manner  to  me  personally  was  most  courteous. 
When  I  wandered  a  little  from  the  subject  into  the  general 
question  of  jury-packing,  his  lordship  asked  me  very 
politely  if  I  considered  that  was  quite  relevant  to  the 
issue. 

"  Perhaps  not  strictly  relevant,"  I  replied,  "  to  the  main 
issue  of  guilty  or  not  guilty.  But  should  by  any  chance  the 
court  decide  there  has  been  a  technical  contempt  of  court, 
your  lordship  must,  I  think,  also  decide  that  my  clients 
have  rendered  a  great  public  service  by  denouncing  the 
system  of  jury-packing  prevalent  in  this  country,  and  that 
consideration  will  surely  determine  the  punishment." 

Ultimately  it  was  decided  there  was  a  technical  contempt 
of  court,  but  no  punishment  was  inflicted. 

At  the  conclusion  of  a  long  judgment  by  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  I  humbly  asked  leave  to  say  a  word  or  two  of 
personal  explanation.  I  knew  that  I  could  only  speak  by 
his  permission,  and  I  knew  that  he  would  promptly  shut  me 
up  if  he  knew  what  I  was  going  to  say,  so  I  spoke  with 
bated  breath  and  whispering  humbleness,  leading  everyone 


APPOINTED  A   JUDGE  347 

in  the  court,  his  lordship  among  the  rest,  into  the  belief  that 
I  intended  to  apologize. 

To  understand  what  followed  it  is  necessary  to  recall  the 
fact  that  very  many  years  ago  the  late  Judge  Keogh  had, 
at  the  Cork  Assizes,  threatened  Lord  O'Brien,  then  a  junior 
barrister,  that  he  would  have  him  removed  by  the  police  if 
he  persisted  in  interrupting.  Almost  immediately  after- 
wards, however,  Judge  Keogh  returned  to  court  and  made 
an  ample  apology  to  Mr.  O'Brien  for  having  "  used  so 
unworthy  a  threat." 

"  My  lords,"  I  began  submissively,  "  may  I  be  allowed 
by  the  favour  of  the  court  to  make  a  personal  explanation 
in  reference  to  some  observations  that  have  fallen  from  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  ?  In  anything  I  said  in  the  progress  of 
this  case  I  was  actuated  by  a  desire  to  discharge  my  duty 
to  my  clients,  and  I  have,  I  believe,  acted  within  my  privilege 
as  counsel.  The  Lord  Chief  Justice  threatened  to  have  me 
forcibly  removed  from  court.  The  only  precedent  that 
occurs  to  my  recollection — I  think  it  will  also  be  within  the 
recollection  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice — is  an  occasion  when 
a  member  of  the  outer  Bar,  now  a  great  judicial  luminary, 
was  made,  as  I  have  been  here,  the  object  of  a  threat  of  per- 
sonal violence.  But  in  that  case,  my  lords,  the  judge  that 
used  the  threat  had  the  manliness  and  courtesy  to  apologize 
to  the  counsel." 

"  This  case  is  now  concluded,"  said  his  lordship ;  "we 
will  hear  no  more  about  it." 

By  a  curious  coincidence  Lord  O'Brien  figured  promi- 
nently in  a  very  remarkable  incident  that  occurred  just 
after  my  appointment  to  the  position  of  County  Court 
Judge. 

While  I  was  on  my  first  sessions  Serjeant,  then  Mr.  A.  M., 
Sullivan,  instructed  by  a  solicitor  named  Mr.  E.  J.  O'Meehan, 
applied,  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Markham,  a  day  labourer  in  Ennis, 
County  Clare,  to  have  my  appointment  annulled.  The 
application  was  founded  wholly  on  a  very  long,  rambling 
affidavit  purporting  to  have  been  sworn  by  this  illiterate 
day  labourer,  setting  forth  in  detail  his  reasons  for  suppos- 
ing that  before  my  appointment  I  had  retired  from  the  Bar. 


348     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

He  being  admittedly  unable  to  read  or  write,  had  his  mark 
affixed,  instead  of  his  signature,  to  the  document. 

It  so  chanced  that  the  application  was  made  in  the  court 
over  which  Lord  Justice  O'Brien  presided.  On  the  strength 
of  Markham's  affidavit  he  made  a  conditional  order  that 
cause  should  be  shown  why  my  appointment  should  not  be 
annulled.  When  the  case  came  again  for  hearing  the 
following  affidavit,  filed  by  the  same  illiterate  labourer, 
threw  a  curious  light  on  the  proceedings  : — 

"  I  was  working,"  he  swore,  "  on  the  Inch  Bridge  Road 
a  few  miles  from  Ennis  for  my  master,  who  is  a  road  con- 
tractor. I  returned  to  my  house  at  Old  Mill  Street  between 
six  and  six-thirty  on  that  evening.  A  man  named  Joseph 
M'Inerney  came  into  my  house  and  said,  '  You  have  a 
process  got,  haven't  you,  Stephen  ?  '  I  said,  '  To  my  know- 
ledge, I  have  no  process.'  When  I  said  this  my  wife  got  up 
and  said, '  You  have.'  Joseph  M'Inerney  said  to  me, '  Come 
down  to  Mr.  O'Meehan,'  as  he  (Mr.  M'Inerney)  guessed  that 
Mr.  O'Meehan  had  a  couple  of  cases  like  it.  I  went  down 
with  Joseph  M'Inerney  to  a  public-house  kept  by  Miss  Lally 
in  Jail  Street. 

"  When  I  sat  down  inside  he  came  back,  and  when 
he  returned  he  was  accompanied  by  Mr.  O'Meehan  and 
Mr.  Miniken,  who  is  a  Commissioner  for  Oaths.  When  Mr. 
O'Meehan  came  in  he  bid  me  the  time  of  night  and  took  the 
copy  process  which  my  wife  had  given  to  me.  He  then  read 
a  long  scroll  to  me,  and  made  some  explanation  about  it. 
Until  my  wife  told  us  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  M'Inerney  that 
a  process  had  been  served  I  knew  nothing  about  the  matter, 
as  I  never  had  any  dealings  with  Griffin,  the  plaintiff,  and  I 
never  knew  that  my  wife  had  any  dealings  with  him  either. 
I  was  very  angry  with  Griffin,  as  he  had  processed  me  with- 
out sending  me  any  account,  as  I  would  have  paid  him  by 
instalments,  even  if  I  had  to  deprive  myself  of  tobacco  to 
do  so. 

"  When  Mr.  O'Meehan  read  the  scroll  he  made  some 
explanation  about  it,  but  I  thought  it  was  about  Griffin,  the 
plaintiff  in  the  process,  as  he  had  never  given  me  any  notice 
that  I  owed  him  any  money  before  processing  me,  and 


APPOINTED  A  JUDGE  349 

I  thought  he  should  have  come  himself  or  sent  a  messenger 
before  processing  me  for  such  a  trifling  sum.  I  never  knew 
that  the  scroll  read  to  me  by  Mr.  O'Meehan,  which  I  now 
know  was  an  affidavit,  had  anything  to  do  with  Mr.  Bodkin. 
I  thought  it  had  solely  to  do  with  Griffin,  who  had  pro- 
cessed me.  After  Mr.  O'Meehan  had  read  the  scroll  to  me 
I  made  an  oath  before  the  Commissioner,  Mr.  Miniken,  and 
put  my  mark  to  the  scroll,  which  I  now  know  was  an 
affidavit.  After  I  had  done  this  I  had  a  pint  of  porter  at 
Miss  Lally's,  and  he  had  a  small  drink  also  ;  I  don't  know 
what  it  was.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  a  few  days  ago  what 
was  being  done  about  Mr.  Bodkin,  the  judge,  as  I  never 
knew  anything  about  Mr.  Bodkin  whatever,  and  I  learn 
that  there  are  rumours  that  I  am  to  get  something  out  of 
the  case,  which  are  wholly  untrue.  I  can  neither  read  nor 
write,  and  if  I  got  a  hundred  pounds  I  would  not  knowingly 
have  done  what  I  am  now  told  I  have  done. 

"  I  say  most  positively  that  I  never  authorized  Mr. 
O'Meehan  nor  anyone  else  to  take  any  proceedings  with 
reference  to  Mr.  Bodkin,  and  I  made  an  affidavit  on  the 
second  of  January  in  entire  ignorance  of  what  the  real 
meaning  was,  as  I  understood  it  was  made  for  the  purpose 
of  defending  the  process  issued  against  me  by  Griffin,  as  I 
never  knew  that  the  debt  was  due  or  got  any  account,  and 
I  say  that  the  said  affidavit  must  have  been  prepared  before 
I  was  consulted  in  any  way  about  the  matter,  as  Mr. 
O'Meehan  had  it  ready  for  swearing  when  he  came  to  Miss 
Lally's  to  me." 

On  the  reading  of  this  affidavit  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan 
abruptly  retired  from  the  case,  and  the  then  Attorney- 
General,  Lord  Chief  Justice  Cherry,  argued  that  there  had 
been  a  gross  abuse  of  the  court.  "  A  judge,"  he  said, 
"  properly  appointed  by  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  had  been  sus- 
pended by  his  lordship  on  an  affidavit  of  an  illiterate 
labourer,  which  was  plainly  absurd  on  the  face  of  it,  and 
which  was  now  sworn  to  be  suborned.  The  Attorney- 
General  demanded  that  the  solicitor,  O'Meehan,  should, 
as  an  officer  of  the  court,  be  called  on  for  an  explanation 
on  oath. 


350     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

His  lordship  refused,  on  the  ground  that  Mr.  O'Meehan 
had  made  no  affidavit.  A  second  application  that  Mr. 
Markham,  who  had  made  two  affidavits,  should  be  examined 
was  refused  on  the  ground  that  the  case  was  at  an  end. 

Some  injudicious  Unionist  asked  the  Irish  Chief  Secretary 
in  the  House  of  Commons  if  he  could  state  what  had  induced 
Markham  to  make  the  affidavit,  and  Mr.  Birrell  promptly 
replied : 

"  A  pint  of  porter." 

The  order  having  been  duly  discharged  by  the  court  that 
made  it,  I  settled  down  quietly  to  my  duties  as  County  Court 
Judge  of  Clare.  Some  months  later  I  met  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  at  a  social  function,  and  he  very  kindly  congratulated 
me  on  my  appointment. 


CHAPTER    XL 
ON  THE  BENCH 

Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority — A  trying  position — Put  yourself  in  his 
place — "  Ordinary  crime  "  extraordinary  in  Clare — Agrarian  offences, 
the  cause  and  the  remedy — A  wave  of  temperance — Two  converts — 
"  Always  for  life  " — "  My  sowl's  in  your  hands  " — The  Quilty  heroes — 
Knocking  at  the  stage  door — Beneficent  legislation — Labourers'  cot- 
tages— Old  Age  Pensions — Demand  for  Home  Rule  undiminished — 
The  good  time  coming. 

I  WAS  minded  to  bid  the  reader  a  cheerful  good-bye  as 
I  stepped  up  to  the  Bench,  but  it  was  suggested  to  me 
that  a  few  farewell  words  would  not  be  out  of  place.  Very 
briefly  I  will  touch  upon  my  sensations  and  experiences  as 
a  judge,  and  on  the  social  and  political  changes  I  have  seen 
during  the  period  covered  by  my  judicial  recollections.  As 
the  ship  that  comes  from  the  rough  waters  of  the  open  sea 
to  the  calm  of  the  landlocked  harbour,  I  passed  from  the 
strain  and  stress  of  arduous  work  to  the  otium  cum  dignitate 
of  the  Bench. 

At  first,  indeed,  my  satisfaction  was  tempered  by  extreme 
nervousness.  It  is  a  very  panicky  sensation  to  sit  in  solitary 
state  for  the  first  time  and  lay  down  the  law  to  an  attentive 
court. 

The  Irish  County  Court  Judge,  as  ex-officio  Chairman  of 
Quarter  Sessions,  enjoys  (or  endures)  a  criminal  jurisdiction 
that  does  not  appertain  to  his  brethren  in  England.  Theo- 
retically, the  magistrates  who  sit  with  him  have  an  equal 
jurisdiction,  but  in  practice  they  are  accustomed  to  leave 
the  conduct  of  the  case  and  the  amount  of  sentence  follow- 
ing a  conviction  in  the  hands  of  the  judge. 

This  sense  of  power  is  bewildering  to  the  novice.  There 
is  a  man  in  the  dock,  a  powerful  young  fellow,  it  may  be, 
who,  man  to  man,  could  crumple  me  up  with  his  right  hand, 


352 

and  there  I  sit  on  the  Bench  the  master  of  his  liberty.  If  I 
say  he  is  to  go  to  prison  he  must  go,  and  he  must  stay  in 
prison  as  long  as  I  choose.  For  a  judge  who  realizes  what 
imprisonment  means  it  is  a  very  worrying  responsibility 
this  shutting  a  man  out  from  all  enjoyment,  robbing  him  of 
a  month,  a  year,  five  years  of  a  life  none  too  long  at  the 
best.  The  punishments  I  inflict  are  as  light  as  the  judicial 
conscience  will  allow ;  if  I  err,  it  is  on  the  side  of  mercy. 
Once  I  remember  having  sentenced  a  man  to  two  months' 
imprisonment.  Then,  for  some  reason  I  have  forgotten,  J 
changed  my  mind  and  reduced  it  to  a  month,  and  as  the 
words  were  spoken  I  realized  with  a  start  how  much  it  meant 
to  him.  A  few  words  of  mine  had  saved  him  thirty  long, 
wearisome  days  in  prison  ;  had  added  thirty  days  to  his  life. 

Luckily  for  me,  there  is  very  little  criminal  business  at 
the  Clare  Quarter  Sessions.  What  is  commonly  called 
"  ordinary  crime "  is  extraordinary — is  practically  un- 
known in  the  County  of  Clare.  Nearly  every  offence  there 
has  an  agrarian  flavour,  but  the  worst  form  of  agrarian 
offence,  the  injury  to  dumb  beasts,  has  almost  entirely 
disappeared.  Even  in  the  wildest  times  the  amount  and 
character  of  those  offences  were  greatly  exaggerated. 
"  Cutting  the  tails  off  cattle "  seems  a  blood-curdling 
crime.  It  was  not  until  I  came  as  County  Court  Judge  to 
Clare  that  I  discovered  that  "  cutting  the  tails  off  cattle  " 
meant,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  cutting  off 
the  long  hair  tassel  that  grows  at  the  end  of  the  tail. 

At  present  almost  the  only  forms  of  agrarian  "  outrage  " 
that  come  are  the  driving  of  cattle,  the  knocking  down  of 
fences  or  the  burning  of  hay,  for  which  I  award  compensa- 
tion out  of  the  rates.  From  minute  inquiries  I  am  con- 
vinced that  all  these  offences  are  committed,  often  through 
mere  wantonness,  by  a  very  small  number  of  people,  and 
that  there  is  no  sympathy  with  the  offenders  amongst  the 
people.  It  is  true  that  there  is  much  difficulty  in  finding 
evidence  to  convict  the  offender,  even  in  those  rare  cases 
in  which  evidence  is  possible,  but  this  arises  more  from 
instinct  than  from  feeling.  It  is  a  survival  of  the  bad  old 
times  when  the  people,  not  without  reason,  hated  the  law 


i  ,i    v 


ON  THE  BENCH  353 

as  their  persistent  enemy,  as  the  instrument  of  suffering 
and  injustice,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  in  a  new  and 
happier  condition  of  things  this  instinct  is  fading  from  their 
minds.  I  look  forward  with  confidence  to  seeing  the  people 
of  Clare  in  the  near  future  eager  to  assist  the  police  in  the 
enforcement  of  the  law. 

For  the  last  year  or  two  a  great  wave  of  temperance  has 
invaded  the  County  of  Clare,  and,  from  what  I  can  learn, 
other  counties  in  Ireland  have  a  similar  experience.  There 
are  a  variety  of  pledges,  each  with  its  appropriate  badge — 
a  cross,  a  shamrock  or  some  other  religious  or  patriotic 
device.  Hardly  a  witness  comes  on  the  table  before  me 
that  has  not  one  or  other  of  those  little  metal  badges  pinned 
to  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  I  cannot  readily  distinguish  one 
form  of  pledge  from  another,  but  to  my  mind  the  most 
ingenious  of  them  all,  and  one  of  the  most  effective,  is  what 
is  known  as  the  "  anti-treating "  pledge.  Irishmen  don't 
care  to  drink  alone,  and  when  they  drink  together  one  man 
invariably  "  stands  treat  "  and  pays  for  the  drinks  of  the 
party.  The  result  is  fatal  to  sobriety.  A  party  of  ten  go 
together  to  a  public-house.  Each  man  in  turn  stands  treat, 
so  that  in  the  end  each  man  is  compelled  to  swallow  and 
pay  for  ten  drinks  when  one  was  all  he  either  required  or 
desired. 

The  "  anti-treating "  pledge  is,  however,  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  moderate  drinker.  It  is  recognized  that  tee- 
totalism  is  the  only  hope  for  a  man  who  has  once  become 
addicted  to  drink,  and  even  that  security  is  not  always 
sufficient. 

I  had  before  me  a  man  who  had  taken  part  in  a  drunken 
row,  but  who  now  appeared  in  the  dock  sporting  a 
temperance  badge. 

"  I  am  glad,"  I  said,  as  I  let  him  off  lightly,  "  to  see  you 
have  taken  the  pledge." 

"  I  had  it  before  that,  too,  your  honour,"  he  responded 
cheerily. 

"  Well,  this  time  I  hope  you  have  taken  it  for  life." 

"  Oh,    your    honour,"    he    expostulated    reproachfully, 
"  sure,  I  always  take  it  for  life." 
2  A 


354     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 

Yet  another  story  which  I  heard  on  reliable  authority 
seems  to  indicate  that  the  Clare  converts  to  temperance 
were  occasionally  disposed  to  "  keep  the  word  of  promise 
to  the  lips  and  break  it  to  the  heart." 

An  habitual  drinker  was  inveigled  by  a  zealous  temper- 
ance advocate  into  a  modified  pledge  that  he  would  never 
take  drink  "  inside  the  doors  of  a  public-house."  The 
alternative  was  supposed  to  be  drinking  at  home,  a  practice 
which,  it  was  anticipated,  his  wife  would  moderate  or 
suppress. 

The  pledge,  however,  proved  wholly  illusory.  Sympa- 
thetic friends  carried  his  drink  out  to  him  in  the  street 
before  they  had  their  own  at  the  counter,  and  the  last  state 
of  the  man  was  worse  than  the  first.  He  was  persuaded 
at  length  to  supplement  his  original  pledge  by  a  codicil 
which  bound  him  to  drink  nothing  "  inside  or  outside  a 
public-house,"  and  for  a  time  it  worked  like  a  charm. 

A  little  later  some  of  his  old  friends  met  him  prowling 
disconsolate  down  the  street  of  his  village.  "  Have  a  drink, 
Pat  ?  "  one  of  them  invited. 

"  Sure,  I  have  the  pledge." 

"  Don't  I  know  that  ?  I'll  bring  it  out  to  you  the  same 
as  always." 

"  It's  no  use,  Mike.  I  have  it  on  me  now  not  to  drink 
inside  or  outside." 

"  Well,  come  and  look  at  us,  anyway." 

The  convert  consented,  and  he  watched  them  with 
envious  eyes  put  away  their  liquor  at  the  counter.  Then 
one  of  the  party,  inspired  by  mistaken  benevolence,  hit  upon 
an  ingenious  idea. 

"  What's  your  pledge,  Pat  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  with  generous  eagerness.  "  Not  to  drink  inside 
nor  outside  a  public-house  ?  " 

"  That's  it." 

"  Begorra,  there's  a  soft  way  out  of  that  same.  You 
stand  on  the  jamb  of  the  door,  and  you  can  take  your  drink 
with  a  clane  conscience." 

The  plan  was  hailed  with  acclamation,  and  the  teetotaler 
balanced  himself  on  the  jamb  of  the  door,  which  was  steep 


ON  THE  BENCH  355 

and  narrow.  To  make  quite  sure,  one  of  the  party  knelt  at 
his  feet  to  steady  him  on  his  precarious  foothold.  The 
teetotaler  trembled  as  the  tempting  glass  was  raised  to  his 
lips. 

"  Howld  hard,  Darby,"  he  whispered  entreatingly  to  the 
man  at  his  feet,  "  howld  hard,  for  the  love  of  heaven  ;  my 
sowl's  in  your  hands." 

The  "  Quilty  heroes"  were,  however,  more  strenuous  and 
steadfast  in  their  good  resolve.  It  is  by  this  title  the  inhabi- 
tants of  a  little  village  on  the  sea-coast  of  Clare  are  known, 
and  the  title  has  been  honourably  earned  by  a  display  of 
heroic  courage. 

In  October,  1907,  a  tremendous  hurricane  drove  the 
French  vessel  Leon  XIII  on  the  rocks  close  to  the  village  of 
Quilty ;  there  she  stuck  fast  while  the  huge  waves  kept 
battering  her  to  pieces  and  her  famished  and  shivering  crew 
climbed  into  the  rigging.  All  day  they  were  seen  from  the 
shore  appealing  for  aid  ;  all  night  their  cries  were  heard 
above  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  waves.  The  little  village 
was  in  a  state  of  frantic  excitement.  Three  times  the  life- 
boats put  out  to  the  rescue,  and  three  times  were  compelled 
to  return  in  despair. 

Then  the  "  Quilty  heroes  "  took  the  matter  in  hand.  The 
coracle,  or  fishing-boat,  of  the  Clare  fishermen  is  a  frail 
structure  of  tarred  canvas  stretched  on  a  light  wooden 
frame,  too  frail,  it  would  seem,  to  the  ignorant  to  float  in  a 
pond.  In  these  coracles  the  "  Quilty  heroes  "  braved  the 
huge  breakers  of  the  storm-tossed  Atlantic  and  brought  the 
helpless  crew  by  twos  and  threes  from  the  wreck  to  the 
shore. 

There  is  a  vivid  description  of  the  rescue  by  the  captain 
of  the  French  vessel,  who  lay  with  a  broken  leg  on  the  wave- 
washed  deck  while  the  heroic  work  of  rescue  was  in  pro- 
gress. "  There  shall  always  live  in  my  remembrance," 
Captain  Lucas  said,  "  the  bravery  of  those  Clare  fishermen. 
How  can  I  describe  its  magnificence  ?  Ah,  they  are  brave  ! 
They  put  out  in  their  little  canoes  time  after  time,  and  the 
waves  rolled  over  them  and  seemed  every  moment  to 
engulf  them.  At  one  moment  they  rode  over  the  white 


356     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

crests  buoyantly  and  bravely,  another  moment  they  were 
plunged  down  into  a  great  valley  of  water.  Ah !  then  we 
on  the  wreck  cried,  '  All  is  over,'  but  on  they  came  again, 
nothing  daunted.  How  they  came  in  the  teeth  of  that 
treacherous  sea  was  only  known  to  their  own  intrepid 
souls." 

Once,  indeed,  a  coracle  was  capsized,  and  its  crew  was 
spilt  into  the  boiling  sea.  A  wail  went  up  from  their  women- 
kind  lining  the  shore,  but  the  stout-hearted  fishermen 
somehow  managed  to  struggle  to  land,  emptied  their 
coracle  and  instantly  put  out  again  through  the  storm  to 
the  wreck.  The  "  Quilty  heroes,"  with  their  coracles, 
marched  at  the  head  of  the  great  lifeboat  procession  in 
Dublin,  and  they  were  decorated  by  the  Government  of 
France. 

The  first  time  I  made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  the 
Quilty  men  in  court  was  on  an  application  for  compensa- 
tion by  an  assaulted  police-sergeant.  To  save  a  life  or  beat 
a  policeman  was  all  in  the  day's  work  at  Quilty. 

Later  on  a  great  wave  of  temperance  broke  with  over- 
whelming force  over  the  village.  The  heroes  were  all 
submerged.  To  a  man  they  took  the  pledge,  and  kept  it 
with  religious  fidelity.  One  fisherman  only  broke  down, 
and  when  the  backslider  was  on  a  fishing  expedition  with 
his  mates  the  news  of  his  lapse  leaked  out.  Forthwith  the 
unhappy  Jonah  was  heaved  overboard  to  swim  ashore. 
Next  day  he  took  the  pledge  again  and  kept  it. 

Though  I  have  never  as  much  as  written  a  two-line 
business  letter  on  the  Bench,  having  to  concentrate  my 
whole  attention  on  evidence  that  is  often  conflicting  and 
almost  always  confusing,  yet  my  judicial  duties,  I  am  glad 
to  say,  have  left  me  spare  time  for  literary  work  which  has 
this  special  advantage,  that  it  can  be  fitted  into  the  crevices 
of  other  occupations.  Of  late  I  have  begun  to  knock  pretty 
strenuously,  though  so  far  unsuccessfully,  at  the  stage  door. 
I  have  written  several  plays,  which  I  am  religiously  con- 
vinced are  better  than  my  stories,  and  I  have  found  one 
distinguished  and  delightful  dramatic  agent  to  hold  the 
same  view.  But,  unhappily,  while  I  can  readily  get  my 


T 

I 


ON  THE  BENCH  357 

stories  published  I  cannot  get  my  plays  acted.  I  am  fully 
aware  that  actor-managers,  by  whom  my  work  is  so 
courteously  restored  to  the  author,  are  overwhelmed  by  an 
ever-flowing  tide  of  MSS.  and  that  their  lives  are  too  short 
to  read  even  the  titles  of  the  numerous  plays  submitted  to 
their  judgment,  so  I  still  flatter  my  vanity  by  the  assurance 
that  my  plays  are  unappreciated  only  because  they  are 
unread. 

If  literary  work  has  its  occasional  disappointments,  there 
are  no  thorns  in  the  cushion  of  the  Bench.  An  Irish  judge 
can  flatter  himself  his  life  is  useful  as  it  is  pleasant.  He  can 
do  much  to  restore  confidence  in  the  law  which  has  hereto- 
fore been  lacking  amongst  the  people.  The  Irish  litigant 
is  a  keen  fighter,  but  he  is  a  good  loser.  All  he  asks  is  a 
full  and  fair  hearing.  I  believe  I  am  specially  fortunate  in 
the  ability  and  kindliness  of  the  solicitors  and  counsel  who 
practise  before  me.  We  are  a  happy  family  in  Clare,  and 
our  business  is  lightened  by  unfailing  courtesy  and  good- 
humour.  Self-exiled  from  the  exciting  arena  of  politics  in 
which,  for  so  many  years,  I  played  a  humble  part,  I 
cannot  restrain  an  occasional  glance  from  outside  the 
railings  at  the  progress  of  the  game,  nor  wholly  subdue  my 
interest  in  the  team  of  which  I  was  once  a  member. 

No  form  of  legislation  has  done  more  for  the  very  poorest 
class  of  the  rural  population  than  the  provisions  for 
Labourers'  Cottages  and  Old  Age  Pensions.  The  old  people 
of  Ireland  are  wonderfully  self-sacrificing.  I  have  already 
written  that  a  marriage  among  the  farming  class  is  what 
the  Americans  call  a  business  proposition.  The  bride 
"  marries  into  a  farm,"  which  is  made  over  by  his  parents 
to  the  eldest  son.  The  bride's  fortune  is  divided  amongst 
the  younger  sons,  and  by  this  means  they  are  often  able, 
in  their  turn,  to  buy  themselves  a  bride  with  "  a  bit  of  land 
of  her  own."  At  the  same  time,  the  old  people,  surrendering 
their  rights  in  the  land,  are  provided  for  by  an  elaborate 
agreement  which  secures  for  them  various  privileges, 
popularly  called  "  liberties,"  in  their  abandoned  holding. 
It  is  provided,  for  example,  that  they  are  "  to  have  their 
support  the  same  as  the  family,  the  exclusive  enjoyment  of 


358     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 

the  west  room  of  the  house  with  the  use  of  the  kitchen  fire." 
"  The  grass  of  a  cow  wet  and  dry  and  half  an  acre  of '  mock  ' 
(land  made  ready  for  tillage),  with  manure  for  the  same." 
These  are  the  usual  liberties.  But  these  liberties  are  the 
subjects  of  endless  litigation,  arising,  for  the  most  part, 
from  strained  relations  between  mother-in-law  and  daughter- 
in-law.  There  is  constant  war  between  the  west  room  and 
the  rest  of  the  cabin  when  the  rival  forces  meet  at  the 
kitchen  fire.  In  one  case  there  were  a  succession  of  equity 
processes  for  the  specific  performance  of  a  marriage  settle- 
ment providing  the  "  liberty  "  of  a  stone  of  good  potatoes 
every  week.  Each  succeeding  session  a  battalion  of 
witnesses  testified  to  the  perfect  soundness  and  to  the  com- 
plete rottenness  of  those  potatoes,  and  my  impartial 
predecessor  seems  to  have  decided  turn  about  in  favour 
of  one  side  or  the  other.  When  I  suggested  the  simple  plan 
of  allowing  and  accepting  the  money  value  instead  of  the 
potatoes,  both  parties  jumped  at  the  suggestion,  and  a  feud 
as  bitter  as  the  Montagues  and  Capulets  was  ended  at  a  word. 
The  right  to  cut  three-farthings'  worth  of  rushes  on  the  bank 
of  a  stream  has  been  made  in  my  court  the  pretext  for  a 
protracted  and  costly  litigation ;  for  Irish  litigants  "  bravely 
find  quarrel  in  a  straw  where  honour  is  at  stake." 

But  I  am  wandering  from  the  subject  of  Old  Age  Pensions. 
In  former  days  when  an  old  farmer,  like  King  Lear,  sur- 
rendered his  kingdom,  he  was  sometimes  evilly  treated  by 
ungrateful  children.  The  Old  Age  Pension — hard  cash  paid 
regularly — makes  him  the  capitalist  of  the  family,  for  whose 
favours  there  is  often  the  keenest  competition. 

The  provision  for  building  labourers'  cottages  has 
proved  equally  salutary.  The  Irish  peasant  was,  as  General 
Buller  once  declared,  the  worst-housed  human  being  in  any 
quarter  of  the  habitable  globe.  His  home  was  a  mud  hovel 
of  which  a  respectable  pig  would  be  ashamed.  Now  the 
legislation  and  the  local  bodies  combine  to  provide  him 
with  a  pretty  comfortable  cottage  and  an  acre  of  land  at  the 
average  rent  of  one  and  sixpence  a  week,  less  than  a  sweated 
artisan  pays  for  a  squalid  room  in  some  filthy  slum.  There 
is  no  part  of  a  County  Court  judge's  duty  more  pleasant 


ON  THE  BENCH  359 

than  the  administration  of  this  Act.  The  countryside  is 
dotted  over  with  those  pretty  little  cottages,  often  em- 
bowered in  roses,  with  a  well-fenced  acre  of  well-tilled  land 
in  the  rear.  Nor  is  it  the  labourer  alone  whose  way  of  living 
is  improved.  The  farmer,  now,  for  the  most  part,  owner  of 
his  own  land,  is  ashamed  to  be  worse  housed  than  the 
worker  on  his  farm,  and  so  the  standard  of  comfort  is  raised 
all  round. 

But  the  change  for  the  better  in  the  condition  of  the 
people  has  not,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  in  the  faintest  degree 
weakened  the  passionate  resolve  that  inspired  the  century- 
long  struggle  for  the  restoration  of  the  Irish  Parliament, 
destroyed  by  what  Mr.  Gladstone  described  as  "  the  baseness 
and  blackguardism  of  the  Union."  I  have  lived  through 
sad  and  strenuous  days,  when  tenant's  right  was  styled  land- 
lord's wrong,  when  the  tillers  of  the  soil  had  no  greater  fixture 
of  tenure  than  trespassing  cattle  and  were  evicted  with  as 
little  consideration,  when  the  profit  or  the  whim  of  the 
landlord  was  the  law  of  the  land.  I  have  known  cases  where 
a  notice  to  quit  was  printed  on  the  back  of  the  rent  receipt  to 
keep  the  tenant  in  absolute  bondage.  As  a  boy  in  the  days 
of  the  Fenian  rising  I  have  seen  elder  schoolfellows  carted 
away  to  prison  for  a  generous  revolt  against  an  oppression 
that  was  unendurable.  Personally,  I  have  played  a  humble 
part  in  the  land  agitation  and  the  national  agitation  of  later 
years,  and  of  late,  from  the  post  of  vantage  of  the  hurler  on 
the  ditch,  I  have  watched  the  progress  of  the  game  with 
cooler  and  more  deliberate  judgment.  I  find  the  national 
aspirations  as  keen  as  ever,  but  I  find  a  kindlier  feeling 
pervading  all  classes  of  Irishmen. 

For  myself  my  hope  is  that  I  shall  live  to  administer  the 
laws  of  an  Irish  legislature  in  which  Irishmen  of  all  classes 
and  creeds  will  combine  to  promote  the  prosperity  of  their 
common  country. 


INDEX 


Abercorn,  Duke  of,  37 

Adams,  Judge,  30,  51  et  sq.,  95,  107, 

254  et  sq. 

Agricultural  Society,  Royal,  37 
Alexander,  Dr.,  Primate  of  Ireland, 

4° 

Andrews,  Judge,  163 
Anne,  Queen,  217-18 
Armstrong,  Mr.  Serjeant,  10  et  sq. 
Asquith,  Right  Hon.  H.  H.,   192, 

230,  242 

Balfour,    Right   Hon.   A.    J.,    153, 
204,  212,  220 

and  Father  Healy,  67 

and    Coercion    campaign,     149, 
15°,  159,  1 60,  342 

and  the  Peggy  Dillon  libel  action, 
162  et  sq. 

in  debate,  225-6,  237  et  sq. 

his  personal  charm,  235 

his  imperturbability,  293-4 
Barlow,  Jane,  277-8 
Barnes,  Mr.,  338 
Barrett,  Wilson,  300-1 
Barry,  Lord  Justice,  131  et  sq. 
Barton,  Mr.  Justice,  238 
Beaconsfield,     Benjamin     Disraeli, 

Earl  of,  62,  170,  270 
Benson,  F.  R.,  286 
Biggar,  M.P.,  Joseph  G.,  171,  207 
Bismarck,    Prince   von,    170,    270, 

272 

Blake,  Hon.  Mr.  Edward,  237 
Elaine,  Mr.,  335 
Blunt,   Mr.   Wilfrid    Scawen,    155, 

159,  1 60 
Bodkin,  Dr.  (father  of  the  author), 

2  et  sq.,  13-14 
Bodkin,  M.P.,  John,  6  et  sq. 
Bodkin,  K.C.,  M.  M'Donnell,  Judge, 

Prefatory  remarks  i,  2 

concerning    the     12     Tribes    of 
Galway,  2,  3 

his  parentage,  3 

early  recollections,  13  et  sq. 

his  education,  15  et  sq. 


Bodkin,  K.C.,  M.  M'Donnell,  Judge, 
on  sectarianism,  15  et  sq. 
and  the  eviction  of  the  Christian 

Brothers,  17  et  sq. 
his  first  pamphlet,  23-4 
enters  for  the  Bar,  26 
on    the    reporting    staff    of    the 

Freeman's  Journal,  26  et  sq. 
attends  Protestant  Synod,  39,  40 
reports   inquest   and   execution, 

42  et  sq. 

on  Judge  Adams,  52  et  sq. 
on    Father     James    Healy,     62 

et  sq. 

on  Father  Tom  Burke,  71  et  sq. 
working  for  the  Bar,  83  et  sq. 
called  to  the  Bar,  84 
the  "  Four  Courts,"  85  et  sq. 
on    Frank   McDonagh,    Q.C.,    94 

et  sq. 

on  an  old  "  junior,"  108  et  sq. 
on  Jsaac  Butt,  in  et  sq. 
on  Baron  Dowse,  117  et  sq. 
on  Lord  Morris,  122  et  sq. 
on  Judge  Murphy,  126  et  sq. 
on  Lord  Justice  Barry,  131-2 
on  Lord  Chief  Justice  Whiteside, 

133-4 

on  Judge  Webb,  134-5 
on  Lord  Chancellor  Sullivan,  135 

et  sq. 

on  Judge  Monroe,  137-8 
on  Lord  Justice  Holmes,  139 
experiences  at  the  Bar,  140  et  sq. 
on  William  O'Brien,  147  et  sq. 
becomes  Editor  of  United  Ireland, 

147  et  sq. 

on  The  Times  Commission,  153-4 
on  Coercion,  154  et  sq. 
and  the  Balfour  libel  action,  162 

et  sq. 

on  Parnell,  168  et  sq. 
disagreement  with  Parnell,  174 
conducts       Suppressed       United 

Ireland,   175  et  sq. 
contests  North  Roscommon,  179 

et  sq. 


362     RECOLLECTIONS   OF  AN   IRISH   JUDGE 


Bodkin,  K.C.,  M.  M'Donnell,  Judge, 
wins  the  contest.  187 
first  appearance  in  the  House,  189 
on  Mr.  Gladstone,  190,  196,  205- 

6,  209,  213,  224  et  sq. 
and  Mr.  Asquith,  192,  230 
a  stormy  debate,  191  et  sq. 
second    introduction    of    Home 

Rule   Bill   by  Mr.    Gladstone, 

194  et  sq. 
customs  of  the  House,  198  et  sq., 

205  et  sq. 

ladies  in  the  House,  212  et  sq. 
his  first  speech,  216  et  sq. 
wild   scene    in    the    House,    218 

et  sq. 

Home  Rule  Bill  carried,  222-3 
some  orators,  230  et  sq. 
portraits     from     memory,     233 

et  sq. 

general  election,  243 
retires  from  Parliament,  243—4 
editorial     work     on     Freeman's 

Journal,  245  et  sq. 
on  Sir  Hugh  Lane  and  Captain 

Shaw  Taylor,  252  et  sq. 
his   friendship    with    Mr.    J.    B. 

Dunlop,  258  et  sq. 
a  visit  to  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy, 

268  et  sq. 

as  a  reviewer,  276  et  sq. 
on  a  generation  of  actors,   281 

et  sq.,  291  et  sq.t  300  et  sq. 
on  some  Hamlets,  286  et  sq. 
an  audience  with  Leo  XIII, 

309-10 
invited    to    participate    in    the 

World's    Press   Parliament   at 

the  St.  Louis  Exposition,  310 

et  sq. 
meets     Rear-Admiral     Melville, 

311  et  sq. 
at  the  World's  Press  Parliament, 

317  et  sq. 

impressions  of  Niagara,  323  et  sq. 
a   visit   to   Mr.    Burke-Cockran, 

331  et  sq. 

visits  Washington,  336  et  sq. 
impressions  of  President  Roose- 
velt, 338  et  sq. 
on   Lord   O'Brien   of    Kilfenora, 

342  et  sq. 
appointed  County  Court   Judge 

of  Clare,  350  et  sq. 
Bolton,  Mr.,  209-10 
Booth,  Junius  Brutus,  286 
Bos  well,  James,  213 
Bradlaugh,  M.P.,  Charles,  199 


Brayden,  W.  F.,  245,  250 

Bright,     Right    Hon.     John,     270 

et  sq. 

Brown  and  Sons,  Messrs.,  258 
Browning,  Robert,  270,  272,  335 
Bryce,  Mr.,  335 
Burke,  Miss  Bedelia,  72  et  sq. 
Burke,  Rev.  Joseph,  70 
Burke,  Miss  Norah,  74 
Burke,  Father  Tom,  2,  25,  71  et  sq. 
Burke,  Mr.,  n 
Burke-Cockran,    Mr.,    331    et    sq., 

337-8 

Butler,  Lord  James,  40 
Butt,  Isaac,  105,  in  et  sq. 
Buxton,  Right  Hon.  Sydney  C.,  232 


Campbell,  K.C.,  Mr.  James,  2 
Campbell-Bannerman,  Right  Hon. 

Sir  Henry,  249,  250 
Capel,  Mgr.,  27 
Carson,  Sir  Edward,  342 
Carte,  D'Oyly.  302 
Cavour,  Count,  170 
Chamberlain,   Right  Hon.  Austen, 

221,  235-6 
Chamberlain,   Right  Hon.   Joseph, 

205,  218  et  sq.,  225  et  sq.,  235-6, 

269 

Chapman  and  Hall,  Messrs.,  279 
Charles  II,  202 

Cherry,  Lord  Chief  Justice,  349 
Christian  Brothers'  School,  17  et  sq. 
Churchill,  Lord  Randolph,  24,  62, 

70 
Clanricarde,  Marquis  of,  150,   156, 

342-5 

Clarke,  Sir  Edward,  197 
Cobb,  M.P.,  Mr.,  233 
Cobden,  Richard,  270 
Coercion  Act,  151,  154  et  sq.,  171 

et  sq.,  339 
Collings,    M.P.,    Right   Hon.    Jesse, 

225 

Connaught,  King  of,  2,  3 
Cooper,  Fenimore,  14 
Coquelin,  B.  Constant,  293,  298 
Corbet,  Jem,  250 
Corot,  256-7 

Corrigan,  Sir  Dominick,  4  et  sq. 
Courtown,  Lord,  155 
Cox,  M.P.,  Mr.,  158 
Crawford,  Mr.  Oswald,  279 
Crean,  M.P.,  Mr.,  221 
Cullen,  Cardinal,  115 
Curran,  John  Philpot,  69,  98 
Curzon,  Lord,  231 


INDEX 


363 


Daily  Globe  Democrat  (St.   Louis), 

318-19 

Daily  News,  241 
Daily  Telegraph,  279 
D'Arcy,  Miss,  12 
Davitt,  Michael,  155,  238,  340 
Delaney,  Father  William,  s.j.,  20 

et  sq. 

Devonshire,  Duke  of,  216 
Dickens,  Charles,  26,  246,  270 
Dillon,  M.P.,  John,  2,  95,  171,  173, 

237,  242,  331 
Dillon,  Peggy,  162  et  sq. 
Donnelly,  Mr.,  151,  153 
Doo  Castle,  6  et  sq. 
Down  Recorder,  246 
Dowse,  Baron,  99,  117  et  sq. 
Doyle,  A.  Conan,  278 
Dublin,   47,   49,   83,   95,    117,    135. 

156,  161,  167,  172,  174,  188,  240, 

252,  257,  281 
Du  Cros,  Alfred,  262-3 
Du  Cros,  Arthur,  262-3 
Du  Cros,  Harvey,  262-3 
Dudley,  Lord,  306 
Duggan,  Bp.,  4-5,  26,  161 
Dunlop,  J.  B.,  258  et  sq. 
Dunlop,  Mrs.  J.  B.,  265-6 

Edward  VII,  61,  247  et  sq. 

Eliot,  George,  270 

Ellis,  M.P.,  Mr.  Tom,  234-5 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  241,  270 

Emmet,  Dr.,  339 

Erskine,  Thomas,  Lord,  230 

Faucit,  Helen,  284 

Finlay,  Fr.  Tom,  22-3 

Fisher,  M.P.,  Mr.,  220 

Fitzgerald,  Judge,  95 

Fitzgibbon,   Lord   Justice,   40,   70, 

87 

Fitzpatrick,  Mr.,  72 
Forbes- Robertson,     Sir    Johnston, 

286  et  sq. 

Forster,  M.P.,  Mr.  Harry,  239 
Four  Courts,  Dublin,  The,  85  et  sq., 

124,  133 

Fraser,  Mr.,  108  et  sq. 
Freeman's  Journal,   26  et  sq.,   48, 

147   et  sq.,    152,    164,    169,    170, 

177  et  sq.,  245  et  sq.,  268,  276, 

342  et  sq. 
Fry's  Magazine,  240 

Gallagher,  John  B.,  30  et  sq.,  40-1 


Galway,  2  et  sq.,  65,  72  et  sq.,  100, 
103,  141,  160,  169  et  sq.,  243.  255 

Gardiner,  Mrs.  Jack,  332,  334-5 

Garfield,  President,  328 

George  V,  256,  297 

George,  Right  Hon.  Lloyd,  232 

Gibbs,  M.P.,  Mr.  Vicary,  220,  239 

Gilbert,  William,  301  et  sq. 

Gill,  M.P.,  T.  P.,  158  et  sq. 

Gladstone,     Herbert,     Lord,     213, 
229 

Gladstone,   Right  Hon.  W.  E.,   i, 

62,  170,  209,  233,  270,  335 
Isaac  Butt  compared  to,  112 
and  Home  Rule,  168,  194,  196, 

204,  218,  242,  248-9,  359 
and  the  Parnell  split,  172,  191 
Judge  Bodkin's  first  impression 

of,  190 
his  marvellous  powers  of  oratory, 

196,  206 
and  the  scrimmage  in  the  House, 

221 

Home  Rule  Bill  carried,  222 
Judge  Bodkin  on,  224  et  sq. 
Morley's  Life  of,  339 

Gladstone,  Mrs.  W.  E.,  213 

Glancey,  Mr.  John,  174 

Glynn,  Prior,  309-10 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  217 

Gregory,  Lady,  340 

Grossmith,  George,  33,  282-3,  3°° 
et  sq. 

Guinee,  Mr.,  30 

Gunn,  Mr.,  302 


Hamilton,  Captain,  155 
Hanbury,  Right  Hon.  R.  W.,  204 
Harcourt,  Sir  William,  Bart.,  225, 

229,  239 

Hare,  Sir  John,  297  et  sq. 
Harper's  Magazine,  272 
Harris,  Mathew,  171 
Hartington,  Lord.    See  Devonshire, 

Duke  of 

Harvey,  Martin,  286,  290,  304-5 
Haughton,  Prof.,  22,  41 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  241 
Hay,  Hon.  John,  317  et  sq. 
Hayes,  President,  328 
Healy,  Father  James,  62  et  sq.,  75 
Healy,    Timothy   M.,    157,    160-1, 

171-2,    175    et   sq.,    205-6,    216, 

230,  238-9 

Hewlett,  Maurice,  276 
Hoban,  John,  338 
Holmes,  Lord  Justice,  139 


364     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  IRISH  JUDGE 


Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  203,  241, 

270,  278 
Home  Rule,  Irish,  83,  in,  113,  122, 

147,  168,  igi  et  sq.,  229,  231-2, 

240  et  sq.,  249  et  sq.,  270,  275, 

339  et  sg. 
Hooper,  Mr.  John,  Mayor  of  Cork, 

151 

Houghton,  Lord,  37 
Hume,  Bill,  262-3 


Ino  Herado,  320 
Insuppressible,  175  et  sq. 
Irish  Catholic,  175 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  283  et  sq.,  289, 
300-8 


Jackson,  Q.C.,  Mr.,  137-8 

James    of    Hereford,     Lord,     in, 

231 

Jefferson,  Joseph,  298-9 
Johns,  Mr.,  321 
Johnson,  Dr.,  22 
Johnson,  M.P.,  Mr.  William,  208-9, 

239 
Jordan,  Mr.  J.,  172 


Kaye,  Sir  William,  165 
Keogh,  Judge,  65,  87,  347 
Killanin,  Lord,  122 
King,  Tom,  286 
Kubelik,  305-6 


Labouchere,  M.P.,  Henry,   209-10, 

231,  234  et  sq. 
Land  League,  47,  95 
Lane,  Sir  Hugh,  252  et  sq. 
Law,    Hugh,    Lord    Chancellor    of 

Ireland,  95 

Lawless,  Hon.  Emily,  340 
Leamy,  M.P.,  Mr.,  156,  174 
Lecky,  Right  Hon.  W.  E.  H.,  340 
Lefroy,  Mr.,  30 
Leo  XIII,  2,  309-10,  340 
Lever,  Charles,  112,  104 
Limerick,  51  et  sq. 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  170 
Lipton,  Sir  Thomas,  249 
Little  Folks,  328 
Logan,  M.P.,  Mr.,  320 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,  241,  271 
Lowe,  Rev.  Brother,  19,  20 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  241,  270 


Macaulay,  Lord,  25,  303 
McCabe,  Cardinal,  63-4 
McCarthy,  Miss,  269 
McCarthy,  M.P.,  Justin,  2,  173,  236, 

240  et  sq.,  268  et  sq.,  279,  338,  340 
McCarthy,  Justin  Huntly,  275 
MacDermot,  Q.C.,  The,  343  et  sq. 
McDonagh,   Q.C.,  Frank,  91-2,   94 

et  sq. 

McDonnell,  M.P.,Joe,  6,  8  et  sq. 
McHale,  Archbishop,  17,  103 
MacNeill,  M.P.,  Mr.  Swift,  236 
McTiernan,  Captain,  183-4 
McWeeney,  Theophilus,  32-3 
Majoribanks,  M.P.,  Mr.,  234-5 
Manning,  Cardinal,  75 
Markham,  Mr.,  347  et  sq. 
Marlborough,  Seventh  Duke  of,  24 
Massy,  General,  60 
May,  O.,  36  et  sq. 
Meehan,  Father,  66 
Meldon,  Mr.,  6 

Melville,  Rear-Admiral,  311  et  sq. 
Midleton,  Lord,  237 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  270  et  sq. 
Millar,  M.P.,  Mr.,  237 
Molloy,  Rev.  Mgr.,  22 
Monroe,  Judge,  137 
Moore,  Thomas,  69,  171,  208 
Morley,  Viscount,  172,  213,  225-6, 

231,  243,  271,  339 
Morris,  Lord,  100,  122  et  sq. 
Mount  joy,  Lord,  7,  85,  148 
Moylan,  Rev.  Brother,  20 
Mulligan,  Peter,  135 
Murphy,  Judge,  99,  126  et  sq. 
Murphy,  Mr.  William,  175-6 


Napoleon,  274 

National  League,  151,  160  et  sq. 
National  and  Liberal  Club,  51 
National  Press,  177-8 
Newman,  Cardinal,  25 
Niagara  Falls,  323  et  sq. 
Nicholls,  Mr.  Harry,  306 
Nobokoff,  Lio,  320 
Norberry,  Lord,  98 
Nordenadler,  Mme.  Ebba,  280 
North  American  Review,  335 
North   Roscommon,   electioneering 
at,  179  et  sq. 


O'Brien   of   Kilfenora,   Lord,    156, 

343  et  sq. 
O'Brien,  Peter,  Lord  Chief  Justice 

of  Ireland,  95 


INDEX 


365 


O'Brien,  M.P.,  William,  2,  147  et  sq., 

160  et  sq.,  170  et  sq.,  237 
O'Connell,    M.P.,    Daniel,    69,    98, 

103,  no-ii,  168 
O'Connor,  Mr.  H.,  176 
O'Connor,  M.P.,  T.  P.,  2,  219 
O'Dwyer,  Mr.,  175 
OF  Kelly,  James,  180,  186-7 
Old  Age  Pensions,  357  et  sq. 
O'Mahony,  Mr.  Pierce,  174 
O'Maley,    Mr.    Charles,    120,    126 

et  sq. 

O'Malley,  Charles,  256 
O'Meara,  Mr.  Thomas,  140,  145 
O'Meehan,  Mr.  E.  J.,  347 
O'Shea,  Captain,  171,  172  et  sq. 
Osman  Pasha,  46-7 

Pallas,  Chief  Baron,  124,  343 
Parker,  Chief  Justice,  315 
Parnell,  Charles  Stuart,  2,  in,  246, 

34° 
supported     by     the     Freeman  s 

Journal,  32 

a  journalistic  hoax,  47  et  sq. 
charged  with  conspiracy,  95 
and  the  founding  of  United 

Ireland,  147 
and     the     Times     Commission, 

153-4.  230 

his  power  in  Ireland,  168,  170 
his  first  speech,  169 
his  oratory,  169  et  sq. 
the  O'Shea  case,  171  et  sq.,  293 
the  opposition  of  United  Ireland, 

172  et  sq. 
Miss  McCarthy's  sketch  of,  275 

Peel,  Arthur  Wellesley,  Viscount 
(Speaker  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons), 193,  197  et  sq.,  206,  208 
et  sq.,  215  et  sq.,  222,  236,  239 

Petre,  Lord,  23 

Phoenix  Park,  153 

Pigott,  Richard,  154 

Pius  IX,  10 

Plunkett,  Archbishop,  17,  40 

Post  Dispatch,  321 

Punch,  303 

Quilty,  355-6 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  166 
Reid,  Mayne,  14 
Ridley,  Mr.,  233  et  sq. 
Rigby,  Mr.,  46 

Roosevelt,  Theodore,  2,  315,  339 
et  sq. 


Rosebery,  Lord,  242,  249,  250 

Rousbey,  Mr.,  307 

Russell  of  Killowen,  Lord,  24,  in, 

230-1 

Russell,  Lord  John,  270,  273-4 
Russell,  Lady  John,  273 
Russo-Japanese  War,  312  et  sq. 


St.  Louis  Universal  Exposition, 
310  et  sq. 

Salisbury,  James,  4th  Marquis  of, 
201 

Salisbury,  Robert  Cecil,  3rd  Mar- 
quis of,  62,  172 

Salvini,  Tomasso,  288,  298 

Saunderson,  M.P.,  Colonel,  221 

Savage  Club,  283 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  303 

Selborne,  Lord,  237 

Seymore,  Rev.,  15  et  sq. 

Sexton,  M.P.,  Mr.  Thomas,  95,  225, 
236-7,  241-2,  249,  268 

Shakespeare,  282,  289  et  sq.,  305 

Shaw,  G.  B.,  290 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  282 

Sherman,  General,  332 

Silberrad,  Una,  276-7 

Sligo,  156 

Smith,  Rev.  Sydney,  65 

Sothern,  Edward  Askew,  281-2 

Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
See  Peel 

Sullivan,  Sir  Arthur,  303 

Sullivan,  Serjeant  A.  M.,  347  et  sq., 

349 
Sullivan,   Barry,   283-4,  286,   289, 

308 

Sullivan,  Lord  Chancellor,  135  et  sq. 
Sullivan,    T.    D.,    Lord   Mayor   of 

Dublin,  151,  172 
Swift,  Dean,  69 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles,  270 

Tanner,  M.P.,  Dr.,  121,  193,  199 
Taylor,  Captain  Shaw,  252  et  sq. 
Taylor,  M.P.,  Colonel,  169 
Tennyson,  Lord,  270,  272,  305 
Terris,  William,  306 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  270 
Times,  The,  153-4,  l68 
Times  Commission,  153,  168 
Todd,  Burns  and  Co.,  258-9 
Tree,  Sir  H.  Beerbohm,  286,   289, 

292  et  sq.,  298,  300-1 
Tree,  Lady,  293 
Trevelyan,  Sir  George,  236 


366     RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN   IRISH  JUDGE 


Trinity   College,   Dublin,    25,    167, 

284 

Tuam,  8,  13  et  sq.,  243 
Tullabeg  College,  26  et  sq. 
Tully,  Mr.  Jasper,  343 

United  Ireland,  147  et  sq.,  165,  171 
et  sq.,  278 

Vane,  Sir  Harry,  218 
Victoria,  Queen,  217-18,  328 

Walker,    Samuel,    Lord  Chancellor 

of  Ireland,  95 
Wallace,  Sir  William,  262 
Waller,  Lewis,  295  et  sq. 
Walsh,  Fr.  Charles,  23 


Warren,  Judge,  97 
Washington,  S.  C.,  336  et  sq. 
Webb,  Captain,  326 
Webb,  Judge,  134-5 
Wellington,  Duke  of,  274 
Wells,  H.  G.,  313 
Wexford,  155 
Whiteside,     Lord     Chief     Justice, 

133-4 

Wicklow,  169 
Wilde,  Oscar,  311 
Wilkins,  Miss  Mary,  323 
Wodehouse,  Lord,  35-6 
Woodlock,  Mgr.,  30 
Wordsworth,  William,  211 
World's     Press     Parliament,     310, 

317  et  sq. 
Wyndham,  Sir  Charles,  296 


WILLIAM    liRENDON   AND   SON,    LTD. 
PRINTERS,    PLYMOUTH 


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